


Three (one of us plays, one of us sings, one of us dances)

by heavensfallingaroundus



Series: This is a love story [1]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Childhood Memories, Choking Kink, Christmas Fluff, Cigarettes, Confessions, Confusion, Crush at First Sight, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Driving, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Edging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Even more gratuitous Thrones references, Falling In Love, Fanservice, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Give them all the awards, Gratuitous Doctor Who references, Introspection, Jamie is kinky, Jealousy, Kilts, Knifeplay, Light BDSM, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Meet the Family, Meeting the Parents, Multi, Mutual Pining, Neediness, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Polyamory, Richard legit walks around balls naked, Riding, Rimming, Rough Sex, Scotland, Self-Reflection, Semi-Public Sex, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Smoking, Spanking, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-09-28 03:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 155,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20419271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: Richard is the strong, alpha type every girl has a crush on. Except, he has mild anxiety, and also really fancies blokes.Taron is the sweet, emotional type with the angel voice every mother hopes their daughter will fall for. Except, he really does enjoy a bit of male intimacy.Jamie is the child star turned forbidden wet dream, who got married (and divorced) way too young, and now definitely has baggage to deal with. Except, he still absolutely loves tap-dancing, and he's determined to be asupport systemfor his co-stars (whatever thehellthat means).The set ofRocketman, it turns out, is the perfect place to fall in love.More than once.





	1. 1. Richard

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovely people. Long time no speak.  
Finally, _finally_ coming at you with what I can only describe as a true labour of love, that has been simmering for well over month, now, and the word count is embarrassing already, and I don’t even know anymore.  
Full disclosure, this summer has been a whole emotional rollercoaster, as I expect you can probably tell, but perhaps the biggest sexual awakening I’ve had yet is the one around little old Jamie Bell. Hence, the beginning of this story (which, for the record, has not been written in chronological order whatsoever) just sort of _happened_ as I stepped on English soil back at the end of July and sat at a café with my laptop and a head full of ideas.  
Before we get officially started, let me give credit where it’s due (brace yourselves, it’s a full list):  
\- I’d like to thank Elton John for existing and writing that song about a promiscuous sixteen-year-old girl. Not saying _promiscuous_ is remotely a good word to describe Richard, Taron, and Jamie in this one, since it’s all pretty much straightforward and consensual and safe. But still. _Alice, it’s my turn today_ definitely is the line that started it all.  
\- [ punk_rock_yuppie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie) God fucking bless you for being a true pioneer and having lit the threesome flame. I will worship [ Rev You Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19663447?view_adult=true%E2%80%9D%20rel=) until my very last day on this planet.  
\- [ phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) for constant support, inestimable advice, late-night brainstorming sessions, and a pristine beta work (all remaining mistakes are mine, goes without saying). You truly are an incredible human being.  
\- My girls [ supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof) and [ Egertonsend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egertonsend), enablers extraordinaires and my constant stars. Through thick and thin. None of this would have been possible without you. I fucking love you to the moon and back.  
\- Scottish poet Alan Jackson, for writing this beautiful [ piece](http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/three/), that I found while researching a title, and that has struck me like a bolt of lightning.
> 
> Let me just clarify from the get-go that this is an alternate universe where Emily Thomas, Ellie Bamber and Kate Mara absolutely do not exist—or, at least, they are not in the boys’ lives. This is simply three, attractive, unattached adult males, and boy to they have a lot of love to give. You have _no idea_.  
Last but not least, so that we're clear, the general idea is that we're going to switch to one of three POV's (Richard, Taron, Jamie) in every chapter.
> 
> This is going to be a long one, and, well (because y’all know I can’t resist a bit of cheesiness)…_get ready for it_.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first, Richard doesn't know if he can do this.  
Then Taron and Jamie come into his life, and he is suddenly pretty sure he can.

** _Part I – Got To Get You Into My Life_ **

_"I’ve been aware of who Richard is for years, and funnily enough, one thing that’s quite interesting is people have been saying to us for years: You two would get on. And we’d just never met." - Taron_

_April 2018_

It’s Wednesday morning, and the mirror is somehow kinder than usual. Since the canonically dreadful London weather has apparently decided to give everyone a break today, for once, Richard has gone for a short-sleeved shirt, light brown and navy blue, a flowery pattern bordering on paisley, paired with a navy chino and brown suede shoes, and it all kind of feels weirdly _breezy_ for April, but he’s digging the look. The trousers are Armani and the shirt is Mr. Porter, of course—he’d be _naked_ were it not for Jeremy and his generosity, after all. The cologne going on his wrists and behind his ears is from a brand called Nasomatto, and it smells like _Silver Musk_. Again, thanks a bunch to Jeremy and Simon for the stupidly expensive 30ml bottle, straight from Florence with love. The note attached to the gift had read “_Not quite sure whether it’s the scent or just its name that describes you best. Love you, stud. J&S_”. Richard remembers googling the bloody stuff—costs about as much as solid gold per fluid ounce, and it’s said to be aiming to “evoke superhero magnetism”. The whole thing makes him painfully aware of how much of a spoiled brat he’s become, having people showering him with gifts just because his face looks a bit good in photoshoots and on telly sometimes, but, hey, _superhero magnetism_ is incidentally what he needs to bring to the game today, since he’s going to Abbey fucking Road to meet Dexter Fletcher and Taron Egerton, and, for some reason, he’s _petrified_.

He’s been toying with the idea of getting the tube to St. John’s Wood and walking it from there, but, oh, look at the time, you narcissistic twat, turns out that changing clothes thrice and trying four different arrangements for one’s quiff does eat time away from one’s day. A cab it is, then, and not a very long ride, either. The driver is pleasant enough, too. Recognises him, but it’s _that bloke from the Boy George film_ instead of Robb, for once, and he’s chuffed. Drops a quick text to Douglas to tell him about it, and smiles down at the screen when he sees he's just got one from Dexter saying that they’re all set and waiting for him.

Reading the message brings to mind the first time Richard met Dexter, only a couple of weeks ago. It was a very informal affair. They’d gone to a small, indie brewery in Carnaby that served the most amazing coffee he ever had in his life, and it had been nice and intimate and _easy_, as actor-director meetings go. The crazy-haired Dexter Fletcher turned out to be a bubbly bloke, quick with a joke and endearing as no-one Richard’s ever met before, and, on that particular day, he was _excited_, too—in fact, he had music for him to listen to. Richard had gone to the meeting knowing full-well that the movie in the works was going to be about Elton John’s life, but he had naively been expecting the whole thing to be a lip-syncing extravaganza, something along the lines of _Bohemian Rhapsody_, really. So, when Dexter handed him the earphones and pressed _play_ on a track titled _Don’t Let The Sun – DEMO_, Richard could not quite believe his ears for a few seconds. Taron’s voice was clear and crisp and _beautiful_, there really was no other word to describe it, and Richard’s mind went completely blank for the four and a half minutes it took him to get through the song. He imagined his _face_ must have been doing something, though, what with Dexter raising his eyebrows at him and shooting constant eloquent looks that said, practically out loud, _I know, right?_—and that’s really all it took for Richard to give his most sincere and eager rendition of _sign me up for an audition immediately_. Only two short days later, Richard found himself with a script in hand that had the words _John Reid_ on the front, reading for Dexter and Matthew Vaughn. Dexter gave him two thumbs up by the end, mouthing _magnificent_, and Matthew just sat there, a sly smile painted on his face. Richard really did not know what to make of the latter, but, again, had no time to revel in self-confidence, because half a day later Dexter was back on the end of the line, and asking whether he had any plans for Wednesday and, if not, would he like to pop over to Abbey Road (_Abbey. Road._) to meet Taron and the crew there—the music guy, Giles Martin, and Matthew will probably be round, too.

So here he is, now, snaking through multiple rows of Asian tourists crowding the pedestrian crossing, then walking on said iconic landmark himself—doing his best to channel a young Paul McCartney, and strolling through the small path that leads to him walking the few steps and stepping across the threshold to Studio One. An usher is there, whom Richard thinks it appropriate to trouble for directions—he’d hate to get lost in the sacred space and risk touching or breaking anything. He asks for Dexter and Taron, then and he’s shown into a recording room, and it’s every bit as impressive as he’s imagined it would be. Dexter, glasses askew on top of his head and the ever-present bed hair, greets him with a huge smile.

“Fabulous to ‘ave you ‘ere, mate,” he says, jovially. “Would you give me a sec? Gotta get Golden Boy out of there. He’s almost done with this one, I think. Innit, Gi?” he asks the man to his right, and Giles says _aye_, nods enthusiastically and reaches a hand out to shake Richard’s, grinning widely.

“Take a pair of these, Richard. Listen in,” Giles offers, handing him some headphones. _George Martin_’s son is just here, in front of him, and Richard is _not worthy_. He does his best to hide his starstruck-ness and thanks Giles, grabbing the headphones from him.

Richard finds a spot between Dexter and Giles, settles down on the seat in front of the huge control panel and, for the first time, allows himself to properly glance over at Taron in the recording booth. He’s wearing a dark grey and blue flannel shirt, open, with a plain white tee under it, and he’s bopping his head left and right to the rhythm of the music, and it’s so _enthralling_ to watch him in there, Richard almost doesn’t recognise the song at first. It’s his absolute favourite Elton of all time, too, so something does seem to be weird already, and Richard doesn’t think it’s nerves this time. A quick self-diagnosis says it might actually be all about _Taron_, and the way their eyes are meeting through the isolating glass, and the smile and the _wink_ he’s getting from him. After that, Taron looks distracted—slips on the cue to the _Bennie!_ high notes in the outro, wears an adorably awkward expression on his face, calls out “Let's turn it round!” gesturing manically with his hands, and then of course goes in to deliver the rest of the song _impeccably_.

By the time Taron receives a thumbs up from Giles and Dexter, and he finally gets his headphones off, Richard is ready as he’s ever been to shake the man’s hand, but Taron pops out of the recording space and goes directly for a hug—and he’s broad, and he’s warm, and he smells _very_ good.

“Richard, _finally_,” Taron says, in the split-second before he’s out of Richard’s arms. When they part, Richard watches as the smile already on Taron's lips widens. “Such a pleasure, mate. I’ve heard so much about you!”

“Likewise, Taron,” Richard replies, delivering what he hopes is a charming smirk. “Also, pleasure’s definitely all mine,” Richard says, reinforcing his statement with a nod to the recording booth. “That was truly ruddy mind-blowing.”

Taron seems to get bashful all of a sudden. He breaks the eye contact, looks down at his feet, and scratches the back of his head. “Oh, what, that old thing back there? Not my strongest, _at all_, I can assure you.”

Handsome, made of talent, and _humble_, on top of everything. Richard can definitely see what people have been going on about, these past few years.

“Listen, mate,” he retorts, matter-of-factly. “If tha’s what ye call “weak”, then, dammit, I’m quite looking forward to hearing the “strong” ones.”

“Told you he was a charmer, this one, haven’t I?” Dexter chimes in, appearing at Richard’s side and tapping a hand on his shoulder. Richard feels himself blush to the root of his hair.

“Don’t listen to ‘im, Taron,” Richard says, embarrassed.

Taron smiles broadly back at him. Also, he winks. Again. Which is kind of rude, right now.

“I actually do believe him, you know,” he declares. “What d’you think, Richard. Coffee?”

“Gasping for some. Shall we?”

Dexter gives his blessing on a thirty-minute break for Taron, which means Richard quickly finds himself sitting across from the man of the hour in a small room a few doors from the recording space they’re occupying, sipping on the scalding hot latte that Dexter’s assistant has just fetched for the both of them. And Taron is speaking, right now, and he’s somehow reading Richard’s fucking mind, and Richard can’t decide whether it’s more scary or wonderful.

“The amount of times I’ve been told we’d get on like a house on fire—I couldn’t even tell ya.”

“Oh, God, same!” Richard replies, and he marvels at his own eloquence. “Same”. Really. “So, looks like you landed a big one, here, haven’t ye. How’re you feeling? Bit scary, innit?”

Taron widens his eyes in understanding. “You have _no_ idea. But I’m over the moon, really. It’s not even been ten days yet, officially, and I feel like I’ve been doing this forever,” he says, and Richard can _feel_ the passion seeping through Taron’s every pore, and he doesn’t know whether he personally has ever felt such a connection to a role. What’s for sure is that he is completely and utterly mesmerised by the man in front of him, and he can just tell this movie is going to be something else, and just _magnificent_. He so wishes he had the green light already. Ah, well. Not like Dexter doesn’t have another ten _better_ candidates lined up for the role, anyways. Richard probably won’t even get the part.

“But hey, I’m so happy you’re on board too, eh? It’s going to be a_ wild ride_,” Taron offers, and Richard finds himself chuckling at the cheesy Reid line (incidentally, the one from his audition), as well as wondering whether Taron might have some kind of psychic power that opens other people’s minds to him, so he can read them like open books.

“Be grand, wouldn’t it? Nothing’s set in stone yet, though. Unfortunately,” Richard replies, the familiar tingle of anxiety flooding him slowly but relentlessly. Taron gives him a kind smile.

“Oh, bollocks,” Taron dismisses him, with a wave of his hand. “I’m saying, yes _the fuck_ it is. Have you _seen_ Dexter around you? He’s _buzzing_. You got it, mate. And I’m, like, fully ready to put twenty quid on it, by the way.” Taron raises his coffee cup in salute. Richard blushes, then does the same.

“Glad tae know you have my back, Taron. I guess I’ll let you know as soon as I know something.”

“Might be able to let you know in advance, if you’d like to give me your number?”

“Thought you’d treat me to dinner first?”

“Don’t you worry, love. You can buy me a nice burger with that money you already owe me.”

The morning flies by way too quickly. By the time he’s out of the studios, Richard is feeling elated and terrified all at once. He’s sure he has felt an amazing vibe coming from both Taron and Dexter—heck, even the five short minutes he spent in tenebrous Matthew Vaughn’s company were not bad, actually. Shame is, he’s been in a _weird_ mood all day, since he knows he did not by any means give his best performance during the audition, and he’s been self-deprecating about it big fucking time for a couple of days already, and now he’s just seen what he _could_ be a part of, and he wants it bad. So. Fucking. Bad. And he’s absolutely not sure whether Taron is lying when he’s singing his praises, and Dexter's last words to him were really flat, distracted even, that whole, "well, thanks so much for coming down, obviously can't say anything official till I have clearance so, you know, my people will call your people... blah blah" and he knows a brush off when he hears one. He's kind of devastated, if he's honest, was letting himself get excited. If he leaves his phone on, he's going to turn himself into a worse bundle of nerves than he already is, checking it every five seconds, and he's supposed to be going on _holiday_ dammit. So he switches the phone off completely, heads for Heathrow and the flight to Paris as planned. There will always be another script.

A full forty-eight hours later, lying in a snazzy hotel bed in the _19ème_, he fleetingly thinks of his Mum and that she’ll probably be worried sick by now, so he makes the grand effort of making himself available to the world once again. When he does, he wonders whether switching one’s phone off for more than one day might be the recipe to magically turn it into a vibrator—it has never buzzed so much or for so long, _ever_. Fifteen missed calls from his agent, Laura, and no less than _thirty_ messages from her, all along the lines of _call me back ASAP_, _heard back from Dexter_, and a string of insults getting progressively more colourful as the hours rolled by. What Richard really appreciates, though, are the messages he’s gotten from Taron.

(9:09 AM) _Welcome onboard. I guess I get to call you _sweetheart_ right now, don’t I?_

(9:10 AM) _Joking. Don’t wanna scare you away. Congrats, mate. It’s going to be a privilege, working with you. __Take care, Rich. See you very soon. T x_

** _Part II - Don't you know an apparition is a cheap date?_ **

_July 2018_

It’s the end of July, and Richard is in his trailer, and he’s boiling. _Long, hot summer_, someone once called it—Alex Turner is murmuring it in his ears right at this instant, actually—and Richard could not agree more. It _has_ been a long, hot summer, the kind of heat that Britain is absolutely not equipped to support. Anyway, what else is new—complaining about the weather is in every Brit’s DNA, after all. Just as Richard is about to grab his phone to look for a portable air-conditioner on Amazon and wondering whether there might exist such a thing as same-day delivery, someone is suddenly knocking at his trailer door. He fleetingly scans his surroundings—immaculate, since he’s only been here an hour or so, no time to turn the place into his own little organised chaos as of yet—and himself—plainly dressed, but everything in place—and he finds his heart is beating a little faster than he’d imagined it would. He suspects he knows who is on the other side of that door, and he’s _embarrassingly_ excited.

He opens the door to a grinning Taron Egerton, who seems to be floating in mid-air and buzzing out of his skull with anticipation, and his aura is so powerful for a second that Richard almost does not register the second person standing next to him. When he does, he finds that _Jamie Bell_ is right there, clad in a tight-fitting black tee and skinny dark grey jeans, smiling up at him from behind his shades. For some reason, Richard feels the familiar pang in his stomach he always gets whenever he first meets a celebrity, but he has no time to revisit twenty years of masterful acting in his head, because Taron is already in his arms, like he was almost four months ago, and it feels _so_ _good_.

“So nice to see you again, Rich,” Taron is murmuring, against his shoulder.

“You too, Taron,” Richard says, as he detangles himself from the hug. “Good God, we’ve made it, haven’t we?”

“We sure ‘ave,” Taron reassures him, and automatically turns to Jamie—who, Richard can’t help but notice, looks slightly uncomfortable. “But where are my manners. Jamie, Richard. Richard, Jamie,” Taron offers, gesturing in-between the two men. Jamie takes his shades off, and his hand is in Richard’s in no time.

“Such a pleasure, mate,” comes in Jamie, strong Teesside accent dragging the word _mate _out and caressing Richard’s eardrums.

“Oh, no, Jamie, pleasure’s all mine,” Richard replies, and can’t help but adding, “I’m a _big_ fan,” since it’s completely true. Jamie shakes his head and chuckles.

“Aw, stop it. Have not managed to get over that _red wedding_ business, myself.”

Richard was half-expecting a Game of Thrones comment, but is flattered nonetheless.

“To be fair, neither have I. My fecking _neck _still hurts.”

“Glad they took the wolf head off ya, at least,” Jamie says, gesturing in the general direction of Richard’s face “_This_ is much better, for sure.” The way he says _sure_ is so _exotic_, and… Ah, alright, Jamie Bell is flirting with Richard. Everything is fine.

“Shall I leave you two alone, maybe, then?” Taron interjects, fake-offended at the lack of attention.

“Yeah, actually, would you mind, sunshine?” Jamie jokes, and turns back to face Richard. “C’mon, Richard, let’s get a cuppa. I’ve got _so many_ questions for ya.”

Taron looks scandalised. “Alright, I'll go hang out with _Elton_, then, shall I?”

“Teacher’s pet, this one,” Jamie says, still turned towards Richard, pointing his thumb at Taron and laughing out loud. Richard likes Jamie way too much already, he’s decided.

Taron flips the bird at Jamie, but then offers, “What about that brew, though, eh? It’s way too early to function on that ridiculous excuse for a coffee Dexter has given us earlier. _Watery_,” he declares, a hilariously disgusted expression painted on his face.

“Ew,” Richard sympathises. Jamie nods, knowingly.

Richard chuckles as he finally steps out of his trailer, closing the door behind him. He joins Jamie and Taron on the walk towards the main building of Bray Film Studios, and the banter is natural and easy and just _great_. Taron makes a point of settling in-between Richard and Jamie and putting an arm around each of them, as they make their grand entrance inside the studios. When Richard turns his head round to face Jamie, then Taron, he finds they both look as thrilled as he feels.

“Look at you both. My John and Bernie. This is going to be _so much fun_.”

**_Part III_ ** ** – _Oh, lawdy mama!_**

_Early August 2018 – first day of shooting_

The first time Richard sees himself in the Reid attire, he feels like he’s in his element. Or, at least, this is what he’s been led to believe by the countless leading-man roles he was cast for in the past ten years. The suit is crisp, the tie is just the right amount of ugly, and the hair—well, the _hair_. Jesus Christ. That’s a whole 'nother thing entirely. _Hideous_ is definitely a word that comes to mind. And yet, Taron seems to _love_ it.

“Good grief, Madden,” he exclaims, wig-covered head popping into the make-up room where Richard is being transformed into Elton John’s very first wet dream come true. _Madden_ still sounds weird, but it’s also very nice. And _sexy_, for some reason? “You look _ravishing_.”

“I most certainly do not,” Richard says, grinning at Taron in the mirror and adjusting his wig, before spinning around in his make-up chair and standing up to face him. “You, however, are something else, aren’t ye?” he says, eyeing Taron up and down.

Taron is wearing white dungarees over a blue t-shirt covered in silver stars, and _platform shoes_ on his feet, and outrageous white specs on his nose—and he is, quite simply, _a lot_. Richard cannot for the life of him help but notice that his thighs look like they’re about to burst from the tight-fitting snowy denim, and he suspects the same might be happening around his bum area, right about now, and then the words are out of his mouth before he even realises, “Spin round for me?”

Yeah, way to sound like a disgusting old perv. Only thing that would have made it worse would have been to call Taron _love_, which he _almost_ did. Well done, indeed.

Taron rolls his eyes from behind his spectacles, and gives him a sarcastic smile, no teeth. He huffs, then, fake-exasperated, and obliges. He turns on the spot, very slowly. And, what do you know, Richard was right. Taron’s arse is simply _spellbinding_ at the best of times, but this outfit indeed does elevate it to previously unknown heights. And there is a moment when Richard finds himself at a loss for words, just a split-second, really—the time it takes for Taron to complete his leisurely pirouette and stare back at him, an amused look on his face. He finally grins sincerely, then, and the Elton tooth gap is _adorable_, and Richard suddenly feels the axe being swung and a battle starting inside his body, heart versus animal instincts; deep _affection_ for the man in front of him raising clenched fists against what now fully feels like an _urge_ to pin him against a wall and kiss him senseless. Wow, falling for Taron Egerton really _is_ as effortless as everyone says, eh?

“Penny for your thoughts, Madden?” Taron asks, adjusting the glasses on his face and smiling more widely still.

That snaps Richard out of it, and he hears himself say, “Well, damn. Thank you for reminding me I really should be doing more squats, Taron.”

“Oh, god, I knew it,” Taron exclaims, and he looks and sounds uncharacteristically coy, for a second. “My bum looks _massive_, dunnit? I’m gonna have Julian’s head for this. I swear I am.”

“And I’m going to dust me longsword off to protect him, if you ever do try. C’mon, T. You have a _great_ arse, and you know it.”

“Don’t know about “great”,” Taron comes back, index and middle fingers of both hands curling into air-quotation marks. “It sure is _giant_, though, innit?”

“What is giant?” Jamie suddenly chimes in from the open door. He’s wearing a _great_ shirt and a pair of blue jeans and also a _wig_—oh, god, the hair, all the hair, poor Jamie did not get any luckier than Richard, did he?—and he’s looking between Richard and Taron, already entertained.

“Taron’s big old bum,” Richard offers, and then musters his best innocent smile. Taron gives him big eyes from beneath his spectacles—a look that can only be described as _sassy_.

“Oh, but it’s the best thing about him!” Jamie replies, making a show of checking Taron out, biting his lip provocatively. Richard briefly ponders whether Jamie is just hopping on the _lads_, strictly-no-homo banter train that they seem to have established—or if, like Richard, Jamie actually _means_ what he says.

“This is _bullying_,” Taron declares, “and you are both _absolute wankers_.” Richard suspects he’s secretly loving every minute of this, though, because he’s imperceptibly striking a pose, right now—leaning against the doorframe, close to Jamie, his arse _popping_.

“Oh, look, Rich,” Jamie says, affectionately, a hand coming to cup Taron’s bicep. They exchange what Richard labels as a meaningful look, and then Jamie turns his gaze towards Richard. “He _loves_ us already.”

Richard feels a rush of _something_, at that, and nods, appreciatively. “He really does, doesn’t he?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are kindly provided by The Beatles, Arctic Monkeys, and, obviously, the Big Man himself.
> 
> Every bit of credit for the snippet about Richard thinking of Jeremy Langmead and his husband goes to [ phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) and the very interesting morning they spent feeding me all the incredible content about their long-term friendship. _Golden_ material, that is.
> 
> The rest of the inspo generally comes from bits and bobs of press the boys have done, that this [ article](https://www.bustle.com/p/richard-madden-taron-egertons-friendship-proves-the-rocketman-stars-are-super-close-off-screen-17949956) enumerates very eloquently.
> 
> Thank you if you decide to comment, leave kudos, and generally shower me with praise I don’t really deserve—because I live for every drop of it.
> 
> See you very soon.  
C x


	2. 2. Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie Bell and Elton John have been _cosmically tethered_ for twenty-odd years. Playing Bernie Taupin is his chance to finally give back to the Big Man, and he is loving every minute of it.  
  
Some part of his brain wants to warn him that _Taron_ might be happening way too quickly. Except that, when he sings (or even just smiles, really) Jamie is immediately under his spell.  
  
And, if he thinks about it, it’s actually completely okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again, lovely peeps.  
  
Right off the bat, let me say how full my heart still is from every single lovely comment I got on the first chapter. Your response overwhelmed me in the best possible way, and it truly is excruciating to have to pace myself to poste only once a week—but it’s a necessity, unfortunately, since I really don’t want to get ahead of myself. Trust the process, they keep saying, and maybe I’m finally ready to listen.  
  
But enough about me (hey, I did tell you this fic has been my therapy outlet, didn’t I?), and let’s start spreading some love back.  
  
To [ phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose), thank you for a _great_ beta work, for keeping me grounded, for getting me through rough patches of writer’s block—and, generally, for being a great friend.  
  
To my main girls, [ supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof) and [ Egertonsend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egertonsend), thank you for constantly screaming about the boys with me, for keeping me sane, and simultaneously making me lose it on the daily (in the best possible way). I love you to bits, and then some.  
  
Finally, to Andrew James Matfin Bell, who forcefully made his way into my writing and my wicked fantasies—and has possibly become my favourite voice in this whole huge-ass mess of a story—thank fuck it was _you_, and not any other boy you beat to it ([two thousand](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-knPNmBTKdA), there were, I believe), who _flew like a bird_, back in the day.  
  
I’m so excited for you to meet my Jamie. I hope you’ll love him as much as I do.  
  
See you on the other side.

** _Part I – Yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen_ **

_Late August 2018_

_“It was just a really special day. Taron was, you know, just playing the piano, and it was him singing, it wasn’t queuing up to any track, and I remember also seeing Jamie, and just watching Jamie listening to him, and it was just like, oh my gosh, his eyes were so beautiful. And I remember, with one of the actors we were joking, and he was like “I will never look like that on a screen,” and I was like “It’s the lighting, it’s all the lighting”. But, yeah, it was more than the lighting.” _– Bryce

Jamie is sitting at a breakfast table and staring at a piece of paper. He has actual bacon and scrambled eggs in front of him. He had the misfortune to check the time a couple minutes ago—it’s getting on for lunch—and he can’t help but wish he was not on camera right now and could wolf it all down and wash it with the steaming cup of builders’ tea that is also sitting idly in-between the cutlery and Bryce’s ashtray.

They’re filming _Your Song_ today, and it’s a whole _bloody_ thing. Taron is having to look moody and fed up with life, in full struggling-rock-star-who-just-went-back-to-live-with-his-mum mode, while he’s actually crawling out of his skin with excitement. Jamie knows it very well by now, because Taron simply won’t shut up about filming the scene, and he’s been making a very big deal of it for at least a week.

_“Can’t even begin to tell you how much this song means to me, J,” Taron said to him, a couple days back, over a pint. “I believe the words you’d use are _cosmically tethered_.”_

_“Ha-ha, very fucking funny,” Jamie replied, and then wondered whether he should stop saying that about himself and Elton, and finally resolved it was too good a phrase to drop on the simple account of Taron Egerton’s cheek. Taron just smiled at him nonchalantly and kissed his temple. For some reason._

_“No but seriously, Jamie. I _love_ this song. I can _act_ it. Dex wants me to sing it _live_, too. I really hope I don’t fuck it up, ‘cause that would literally mean throwing ten whole years of my life down the fuckin’ drain, let me tell you that.”_

The story of Taron’s audition for RADA, back when he was a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old boy, is more than well known to Jamie—on account of Taron, Dexter, Matthew Vaughn, and a very proud _Elton John_ having told it on multiple occasions since shooting began, a month back. Christ, has it been a _month_ already? Time on this set—time _with Taron_ seems to fly by scarily fast, and Jamie doesn’t know what to make of that quite yet.

Every time Jamie sits in the make-up chair to have his Bernie wig put on and some of his wrinkles erased by Lizzie’s magic touch, Jamie secretly hopes that Taron will plop down on the chair next to him for some high-quality banter before they start shooting. Most days, unfortunately, he doesn’t. Not for lack of effort, either—the man has straight-out confessed to being one of those people with fifteen different alarms set at five-minute intervals, starting from the time it would be _most productive_ to get up, shifting into the time it would _definitely be appropriate_ to get up, and, finally, entering the _almost too late_ to get up territory. When he does manage to drag himself to set at a decent time, though, Taron is his usual bright and funny self from the get-go, quick with a line and ready to spread kindness and make everybody laugh. Funnily enough, he’s especially awake for their early-morning shoots (the ones for which Dexter makes sure to quite literally send a PA to knock on Taron’s trailer door and not leave without him under their arm), so much so that Jamie would never have suspected Taron is not at all a morning person.

In a word, Jamie _loves _Taron. The way they instantly clicked on readthrough day had felt unreal. In his long career, Jamie has rarely experienced anything like the chemical bond that he and Taron are currently sharing, filming this whole shebang of a musical. One previous instance that comes to mind is maybe James McAvoy, with whom Jamie remembers having endless _incredible_ conversations while practising his Scottish accent for that outrageous Irvine Welsh movie they were in together, once upon a time. Then again, Jamie has an inkling that Scots are simply something else entirely. His suspicions were instantly confirmed when Richard Madden (who has snatched the delicious gig of playing Elton John’s _boyfriend_, of all things) first shook his hand and simply said _pleasure_. Then again, this is a whole other thing Jamie really doesn’t want to get into, because Richard’s shockingly blue eyes and dangerous smile scream trouble from five hundred miles away.

Richard is not going to be around for the scene they’re filming today—he’s been summoned by the highest authority in the country (the BBC) to work on some promo for his upcoming series, which Jamie briefly recalls involving terrorism and PTSD and Richard’s character banging the Prime Minister or some other bollocks—so Taron is, quite literally, _all Jamie’s_. That is, if one completely erases Dexter, Bryce, Tom, Gemma, and approximately twenty other crew members buzzing all around them. But _they_, really, are not the point. Judging by the script, which has basically been Jamie’s bible for the past three months or so, the point is that this is supposed to be a very intimate moment between Elton and Bernie, one for the books, really, and Jamie is very selfishly making this all about himself and Taron, and it feels like literally no-one else is around, right now. Which he actually suspects is what Dexter _hopes_ will happen, so he doesn’t even feel bad about it. Not. One. Bit.

Seeing Taron walk into the kitchen in his underpants, wearing only a very _open_ dressing gown as a poor excuse for modesty suddenly makes Jamie quite grateful he’s not allowed to sip on his tea quite yet. The first bit involves Bryce and Taron bickering away, coupled by her going on about how she simply _cannot_ do everything in the house, which is ironic, really, because right behind them stands Gemma, who’s implied to have cooked and is now doing the washing up, imperceptibly shaking her head in disbelief. Jamie looks intently at the piece of paper he’s been fake-scribbling on, nibbles on the pen cap, and hands the sheet to Taron, who shoots him an inquiring look and murmurs “There’s egg on this,” before getting up and walking off. Jamie finally gets to have a sip of tea and is only half-surprised when it scorches his mouth, because of course it would happen today of all days, when he’s at the centre of the action. But it almost doesn’t matter now, because Dexter is calling cut already, and Jamie assumes they will need to re-do this all over again a couple times more, at least, before they get to shift to the next bit of set for the _actual_ scene.

Just fifteen more minutes go by, and Dexter surprises everyone by calling the final cut on the breakfast table bit. They’ve ended up doing only two takes of this, and Jamie is already stupidly proud of how well they all seem to be doing today.

It has taken Jamie a couple of days to come to terms with the fact that the scene they’re about to film is, quite literally, Elton and Bernie’s _declaration of love_ to each other. Bernie is writing the words for Elton, _about_ Elton, and Elton is composing music to them and addressing them all directly back to Bernie. Jamie considers it a humongous step forward to have finally managed to admit to himself that he really can’t bloody wait for Taron to sing to him that life is wonderful now he’s in the world. The fact that the mere thought of this sends shivers down Jamie’s spine could just mean that he might have a bit of a crush, he supposes—which filming this, right now, is most certainly not going to help him out of. But what can Jamie do, really? It’s in the bloody _script_, after all, isn’t it?

Jamie settles in his designated starting position at the foot of the stairs, since he’s not supposed to come in until Taron is at one particular point of the song. Dexter shouts “Action!” once again, and there Taron goes, playing the piano and singing his heart out like the absolute _angel_ in the hip square glasses he is.

Jamie makes his entrance and leans against the doorframe, and he’s almost sure he will bawl his eyes out any second now, because he already fucking feels tears coming in after hearing that line about how Elton would like to buy a house for them both to live together in. Taron turns and smiles at Jamie when he discovers the _potions in a travelling show_ bit, and Jamie looks down and chuckles, and he forces his heart to stop from exploding quite yet, since he knows the best is yet to come.

_I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I can do_

_My gift is my song and this one’s for you_

Taron has literally just sung the last line directly at Jamie, and it’s all Jamie can do but stop himself from breaking down. They’re barely one third of the song in, and _goddamn_, Jamie doesn’t know how much of this he can take without just smiling like a lunatic throughout the whole thing.

There’s the line about the eyes, then—which, _thank fuck_, is another one that makes Elton laugh, because Jamie is justified widening his smile and looking down coyly at his feet, and tears are threatening to spill out of his eyes, and he’s suddenly extremely grateful for his late 60’s ‘do, which is doing wonders to hide them.

Jamie knows the script calls for Bernie to look adoringly at Elton during the _yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen_ bit, and Jamie wonders whether anything has ever come any easier to him in the whole of the twenty years he’s spent being a professional pretender on film and television. Actually, scratch that, that timespan can be extended to the thirty-two years he’s spent living and breathing as a human being on this blue and green orb floating in space. He briefly finds himself hoping that Taron will catch some of the _actual_ yearning he’s more or less voluntarily conveying through this glance.

_And you can tell everybody_

_This is your song_

Taron vocalises so _prettily_ while delivering another iconic line at Jamie, and Jamie prays to each and every Olympian deity that Dexter will choose a close shot of _Taron_ and not of him to deliver this moment on the big screen, and this for two simple reasons. One, Taron is grinning like an overjoyed child while singing what is probably one of his favourite songs ever written, and that is simply too beautiful to waste on a shot of Jamie’s lovestruck mug. Two, Jamie has stopped trying to fight tears, now, and they’re finally flowing free down his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth. They’re silent tears, and they’re _happy tears_, and Jamie can’t quite yet believe how many times they’ll get to do this today, and he already dreads Dexter calling the final cut, because if he could sign a contract to make this shoot drag out _ad_ _infinitum_, he most definitely would.

By the time they get the scene wrapped, it’s already time to go home for the day. Saying Jamie is emotionally spent is a kindness, because the word _wrecked_ is really what most easily comes to mind, now he finally has five minutes to himself in front of the dressing room mirror. Christ, his eyes are unreasonably red and swollen for what is supposed to have been nothing but a wholesome scene. He still can’t quite believe that make-up actually _gave up_ on him completely by the early afternoon—not on Lizzie’s account, by the way, but on Dexter’s, who must have thought it almost too good to be true that Jamie would get this emotional about the whole thing and wanted to use it to his wicked advantage.

_Bloody brilliant_ were the exact words Dexter used after he declared that they were done with Taron singing Jamie the greatest love song ever written. “I might need you to sign a couple o’ papers, boys. You’re not allowed to work for anybody else from now on.” After hugging Taron and Jamie paternally, Dexter also spared a kind word for everybody else on set, raised a round of applause and closed the day by shouting a benevolent “Now bugger off and go get a pint!” into the crowd.

A pint is, incidentally, something that has been buzzing around Jamie’s mind for at least three hours now. He still doesn’t know whether he’ll actually be able to muster the balls to ask Taron to come out with him for one, though, hence he’s taking a break from the world and scrutinising his face in the mirror as a sort of reminder that, underneath the red eyes and the ridiculous hair, he’s still a fairly good-looking bloke, and there is no reason why Taron would say no to a pint between friends, anyways, right? Mates, pals, brothers. That’s all they are. That’s all _this_ is.

Just as he’s thinking this, the door opens wide and Jamie turns in his chair to face it. And, of course, who else should enter the room he’s busy self-deprecating in but the man of the hour himself, practically floating in mid-air, with absolutely the biggest grin Jamie has ever seen on anyone planted right in the middle of his face.

“C’mere, y’git. You rushed off before I got the chance to do this. _Rude_,” Taron says, in a fake-reproaching tone. Jamie is on his feet in no time, kicking the make-up chair away from himself with the back of his leg and closing the distance between him and Taron in a few, quick steps. They hug tightly for a few seconds, before Jamie manages to form a coherent thought.

“You were _magnificent_, T. Elton is going to be so fucking proud.” He means every word. Heck, he wishes he could say so much more, but he’s aware it’s way too soon. Doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. Not more than he already has, anyway.

“Oh, shut it, Jamie. _You_ were. I honestly could not have done it without you. My perfect Bernie,” Taron is saying in the crook of Jamie’s neck, his breath hot against Jamie’s skin, making his blood rush to the spot he’s now planting a fleeting, soft kiss.

Taron’s body is warm and comforting and disentangling from the embrace is slightly more excruciating than usual, for some reason. Perhaps to keep the flame alight a wee bit longer, perhaps because Jamie has been wanting to do this the whole bloody day, he ends up mentally kicking himself in the butt and speaks out.

“Lemme _tret_ you to a pint, Taron?”

Jamie looks at Taron looking at him in a mixture of amusement and confusion, and doesn’t really know why Durham is flooding back into his speech, all of a sudden, but he’s pretty positive Taron got the important half of the question, because he’s now smiling again and nodding.

“Give me fifteen minutes to get this wig and tooth paint off,” Taron replies, chuckling slightly, “and maybe put some bloody _trousers_ on, while I’m at it, and then I’m all yours for the night, Teesside boy.”

Fifteen minutes fly by, during which Jamie almost regretfully climbs out of the Bernie outfit (he absolutely _loves_ the T-shirt, which is high on the list of things he will definitely be begging Julian to be able to keep, by the time this whole thing is done), takes the briskest shower in the history of mankind, puts the dark skinny jeans and plain white T-shirt he came in wearing this morning back on, spritzes some cologne behind both ears, and runs a hand through his hair. He constantly marvels at how long it’s getting—he doesn’t see it very often, lately, what with it being constantly covered by the god-awful wig—and he has started to quite dig the look. It’s nice to finally have hair again, after spending three whole months buzzing it off every other damn day while filming _Skin_. After that whole endeavour, Jamie finds he almost needs to pinch himself when he wakes up every morning—he obviously hadn’t quite realised how much Bryon Widner had taken out of him until he’d read the line _all I ever wanted to be was a cowboy_. Getting to play Bernie Taupin for the uplifting musical fantasy of the bloody century at this time of his life is starting to look like a flashing neon sign from the universe that karmic justice is definitely a real thing.

Jamie strolls out of the dressing room to find Taron on his phone, smiling down at the screen while tapping manically on the keyboard. His eyes come up to meet Jamie’s and a grin appears on his face, his teeth now un-Elton-ed, his hair perfectly styled, endearing smile lines accentuating the content expression at the sight of _Jamie_, apparently, which sends a weird shiver down Jamie’s spine.

“Where’s County Durham’s best taking me, tonight, then?” Taron asks, hooking an arm around Jamie’s neck and kissing the top of his head. Jamie usually just feels _tiny_ when people do this, but right now it’s surprisingly okay.

“Bloody ‘ell. You’re on a roll, tonight, aren’t you, Taron?” Jamie laughs and shakes his head.

“Yessir,” Taron simply says, and then adds, “Still haven’t answered my question, loverboy. Where to?”

“Hoxton Square,” Jamie replies, as if what he’s on about is plain as fucking day. He’s had a _genius_ idea while he was in the shower. Taron just looks at him, confused, a half-smile still on his face. “Oh?” he offers, since Jamie can’t seem to manage to get the words out.

“Gigi’s Bar,” Jamie replies, and he _still _can’t bloody say it, and he wants to slap himself in the face. He tries adding, “You were on fire today, and it’s only fair I take over for the night. If you’ll let me.” Again, he really wants to try and cut the enigmatic shite, but his mouth does not seem to want to cooperate.

“Jamie. I think you’re terrific, I really do. But we haven’t known each other long enough for me to be able to read your mind quite yet. You should ask the Aber boys how long that took,” Taron says, and he knocks on his own head with his fist, as if to say _not much going on up here_. “What’s at Gigi’s Bar?”

Oh, _for fuck’s sake_, Jamie should just spit it out, shouldn’t he?

“They’re holding a tap-dancing event there tonight. World-famous dancers an’ all. And the public can participate.” Jamie says all that and proceeds to flush a deep shade of purple. Needless to say, this has _never_ happened—any excuse to show off his skills on fucking _American_ _telly_, he would gladly take. God knows Taron Egerton _would_ be the first person around whom he ends up acting coy about the fact that, on the side of his more or less successful acting career, he happens to be a full-fledged _professional dancer_.

“_Oh_,” is all Taron can muster, and his expression is momentarily unreadable. And, like that, overwhelming doubt and regret are now flooding Jamie, filling every nook and cranny of his mind. He must act quick, before it’s too late.

“Ah, forget it. That’s a stupid idea, actually,” he comes back, a little too hastily, perhaps, and proceeds to go straight into a monologue, “We could just hit the South Bank and go for a pint there? Or maybe Shoreditch? I’ve heard of an underground cocktail place that is not even on Google Maps, apparently. Bloody difficult it’ll be to find, maybe, but we can make a sort of treasure hunt out of it? Although that sounds tedious after a full day on set. Or maybe—”

“Jamie,” Taron manages to interrupt the stream of consciousness, and thank fuck he does, because Jamie was already running out of things to say.

“Yes?”

“Are you taking the piss right now? _Of-fucking-course_ we’re going to the tap-dancing thing. Wouldn’t miss that if the whole bloody world was on fire.”

** _Part II - Get on your dancing shoes_ **

_“I started dancing when I was six. Dancing’s been in my family for ages—me mam, me auntie and my sister dance. So when I was very little I used to get dragged with my sister to the dancing school (competitions and things like that), and I just saw this girl, dancing on the stage, and she wasn’t doing it properly! She was out of beat and out of rhythm and stuff! And I kind of turned to me mam and said “Well, I can do better than that.” And the said “Well, fine, I’ll buy you a pair of tap shoes and you can go try, then.” _– fourteen-year-old Jamie

_Graham Norton: “Jamie, when dancing happens around you, do you feel very self-conscious?”_

_Jamie: “I feel very pressured by it, yeah. ‘Cause everyone expects you to be, like, really good. ‘Cause, “You were in that movie! You must be amazing!” So, like, for example, at wrap parties, or—I don’t go to clubs, I’m not someone who does that whole thing—but if I’m at wrap party they’re like, pulling me on the dancefloor, like “You gotta dance, you gotta do some dancing!” But, like, I was a _tap-dancer_. And tap-dancing does not go down well in night clubs. You can’t hear it, for a start, and I’d be, like, pulling out Fred Astaire moves in the night club.”_

_“Dance was always a thing that I really loved, and I’m always looking for things to do with dance.” – _Jamie, 2019

_Later that night_

They _drive_ all the way to Hoxton Square, for some reason. The reason of course being that Taron had apparently woken up in a vintage-Jag mood and had rolled right into the Pinewood parking lot blasting Queen with his windows open like he owned the place. Jamie tried to reason Taron into getting an Uber, arguing his car was absolutely not going anywhere, but Taron had uttered something cheesy along the lines of _hop in, dancing boy_, and Jamie had _melted_, of course he had—and now Taron is cursing out of his teeth, _of course he is_, because trying to find parking in the most bar-dense corner of Hackney at 8 P.M. on a Friday night is, to put it mildly, a herculean task.

All in all, Jamie is already enjoying himself immensely (because being right is quite possibly the most satisfying thing a boy can do without taking his clothes off). He doesn’t say _I told you so_, however, because it’s _Taron_, adorable, hard-headed Taron, and he’s circling the damn square over and over, relentless, his brow furrowed in concentration, the odd swear word escaping his lips. Just as Jamie is left thinking he might as well get out of the car and nick the Australian shepherd puppy he has had his eye on, intermittently, for the good ten minutes they’ve been rolling around the small green area—just then, on cue, the miracle strikes. A blonde woman with approximately a million kids and huge Porsche Cayenne gives Taron the brightest smile Jamie has _ever_ seen, which Taron gives back in full, and Jamie feels a pang of _something_ in the pit of his stomach, but that’s not the point, because the bitch ends up _freeing a spot_ for them, and Taron punches the air in triumph, parallel parks, and sighs in contentment when he finally turns the engine off.

“Told you,” Taron has the nerve to say.

Jamie doesn’t quite know how to retort at first, so he just rolls his eyes and shakes his head, before shimmying into his leather jacket and running a hand through his hair.

“Sod off, T, that was sheer luck.”

“I make my own luck, Jamie Bell.”

“Alright, alright, cool it, Rocket Man. Harvey Dent is _definitely_ not a good look on you.”

“Always been more of a Jim Gordon boy, anyways.”

“Why, yes, of course. Gary is a proper _pet_.”

Taron gives a hearty laugh at that.

“Not that I would mind sitting here gushing over Gary Oldman with you all night, but I was promised wallop and nibbles and _tap-dancing_, and I’ll be damned if we miss registration time. Shall we?”

“Absolutely. After you, sunshine.”

As they walk down the stairs to make their entrance into the crowded bar, Jamie is relieved to note that it’s every bit as amazing as he remembered. There’s neon lights, graffiti on the walls and ceiling, a long, outstretched counter overlooking the entire place, chairs a little scattered, and the coveted stage in the corner, where someone is already trying their hand (well, feet, really) at tapping to the notes of a Pink Martini tune—and Jamie sure appreciates the audacity. He has an inkling that the bird collecting the fee at the door must know who he is, because she smiles way too warmly up at him during the whole of their brief exchange, and he can _swear_ he hears the words _Billy Elliot_ float in the air as soon as he turns his back on her. But that somehow happens not to bother him at all, because there usually are hardly ever paps in the area, on account of the fact that the tap-dancing scene and the Hollywood glitz (yeah, right, as if) very rarely mix, these days. Plus, Taron’s arm is now hooked in Jamie’s, and everything is right in the world, really.

Taron seems to be scanning the room for something, or someone, and by the time Jamie realises what kind of mission he’s on, Taron is talking.

“Bingo. Right there,” he points at a man sitting at a small table, a few sheets of paper scattered on top of it. “Go on your merry way, I’ll grab us some nosh and drinks. What’s your poison, Jamie Bell?”

“Ugh, dunno?” Jamie is doubtful for a moment. “Margarita? Bloody Mary? Anything but _gin_, and we’re in business.” At that, Taron scrutinises him, sporting what looks like a sheer surprised expression, possibly even veiled with a tad of admiration.

“Was thinkin’ more like beer or cider to get us started, but, oh, well, I guess we’re in a cocktail mood, then? _All-right_, sir, on it,” Taron says, grinning, then pressing the side of his hand on his front, performing a military salute at Jamie, and spinning on his heels to strut towards the bar. Jamie is left with his mouth agape, about to retort, but Taron is gone before he manages to get a word in. Jamie then resolves to go over to the man taking registrations for the improvised tapping event, to sign himself up. There’s a small queue, but the bloke is efficient, and it’s Jamie’s turn in no time.

“Hiya, mate,” the man greets Jamie, warmly. “Want to have a whack at it, then?”

“Sure do,” Jamie replies, returning the smile, and finally allowing himself to properly get excited about dancing in public again—it’s been _a long time_.

“Alright then, spiffing! What’s your name, pal? Just need it for announcing when you can get on stage and to enter you in our competition. First name only is plenty fine.”

“Uhmm,” Jamie hesitates for a second, a thought suddenly crossing his mind that giving his real name might still be a bad idea, despite the apparent absence of press sharks. “Andrew,” he declares, and that’s not even a lie. It _is_ his first name, after all.

“Very well, Andrew. D’you already have a song in mind, or would you like us to surprise you?”

“Oh, no, no surprises tonight, please,” Jamie shakes his head and chuckles. “Got someone to impress, see,” he continues, not quite sure what it is about this man that makes him want to open his heart out.

“Ooh, we in for a prepared routine, then?” he asks, winking at Jamie and looking impressed.

“_Puttin’ On The Ritz_, please,” Jamie says, confidently, and smirks down at him. “And I might need some shoes, if you’ve got any I could borrow? Came here straight from work, _like_.” Wow. Durham is coming in strong indeed, tonight, isn’t it?

“Absolutely, no problem. Just swing by five minutes before your slot, and we’ll hook you up, Andrew.”

“Cheers, mate, ‘preciate that.”

“Of course! Kick back, relax, and come back for those dancing shoes in thirty-five minutes, eh?”

“Looking forward to it! Laters, then,” Jamie says, walking back towards the bar. As he’s approaching it, he sees Taron’s unmistakeable behind perched upon a stool in front of a very _young_ and very _cute_ barmaid. He’s laughing, and he’s sipping on a red and white paper straw, and he’s _gorgeous_. Jamie feels compelled to close the distance between himself and the bar with renewed urgency.

“What d’you get me, then?”

“Oh, hello, you,” Taron greets him, a hand coming to rest on Jamie’s back from where he’s sitting. “You’ll have to taste to know, won’t ya?” he replies, then, and the straw is back in his mouth, and the way his cheeks hollow when he sucks on it makes Jamie’s head turn for a second. He shakes it, then, to snap himself out of it, and makes a show of sceptically eyeing his own drink—a Martini-type conical glass containing a light pink liquid, sugar all over the rim, and a slice of lime hooked upon it.

“My ovaries are tingling in anticipation, Taron,” he says, smiling, sarcastic, and Taron gives him a scandalised look.

“Hadn’t expected your masculinity to be so fragile, James. But thanks, _pal_, duly noted,” Taron says, raising a class to clink it against Jamie’s. “_Santé_, princess.”

“Oh, fuck off. I was joking. This actually looks…,” Jamie pauses, raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip. The sickly sweetness of the sugar and the tanginess of the citrus and the potency of the rum all hit him in unison, and it’s like a symphony of summer in his mouth. “…delicious. Wow, grapefruit? You’re a genius.”

“What else is new?” Taron replies, smug. He then picks the cocktail menu up from in front of him and makes a show of reading through it. “Although funnily enough, it’s not me you have to thank. This one’s called a _Hemingway daiquiri_, apparently,” he says, his gaze shifting from the menu to catch Jamie’s eyes, and he raises one eyebrow. “Told meself—it’s good enough for Hemingway, well, it ought to be good enough for you, dancing boy.”

Jamie shrugs, then chuckles silently while taking another sip. _Delicious_. “Touché, Taron. And cheers to good old Ernie,” he says, raising his glass to clink it against Taron’s—who is drinking from a tall, cylindrical one, which Jamie can bet his life contains a supercharged vodka-tonic.

“Cheers, indeed,” he says, cheerful. “Let’s ge’ a table, shall we? See ya later, love,” Taron says, _winking_ at the girl behind the bar. Jamie is just about to make a salty remark, but then Taron is standing up and his hand is resting on the small of Jamie’s back once again, and, well, the words all but evaporate in a cloud of thick smoke.

Half an hour goes by in a blur of back-and-forth anecdotes, laughter, light-to-moderate flirting, and the unavoidable _Rocketman_ talk, which most of the time ends up derailing in a flurry of Jamie gushing over Taron’s singing abilities and impeccable portrayal of Elton—and it somehow feels like they’re back at that Regency Café table, desecrating the memory of the great Marty Robbins. There’s most definitely a moment when Jamie can’t help but ponder whether it would at all be inappropriate to ask Taron if he could kiss him—but far be it from Jamie to let the daiquiris (he’s had three, so far) ruin the potential of a moment like that for him. Bottom line is, Jamie has the rotten habit of getting lost in his own head (this happens a lot, especially around Taron, these days), and the alcohol starting to kick in sure is not helping right now. Luckily for Jamie, Taron has relentlessly been monitoring his watch, and he’s the one to tell him when it’s time to go up on stage.

“Break a leg, Billy. This is such a _treat_, you have no idea,” Taron says, sounding genuinely excited. Jamie feels himself blushing furiously as he stands up. And it’s not the dancing, either. It’s definitely _all_ _Taron_.

“I sure hope I won’t disappoint,” he says, from his heart.

“Like you ever do. Off you pop, love. Knock ‘em dead.” Another smile, another wink, and Jamie finally feels that his tank is full of fuel, and he’s ready to roll.

The shoes are comfortable and in surprisingly good nick, not at all as disgusting as he’d imagined they would be. When he’s finished doing them up, he gets up again and, as he crosses his arms around his middle and turns to watch the stage, he feels a light tap on his shoulder. He turns around, and he’s faced with the bloke from before, at the registration table, who is honest-to-God handing him a dancing cane and a fecking _top hat_.

“Said you needed to impress someone, didn’t ya?”

Jamie is _flabbergasted_, and his heart is _singing_.

“Oh my God. Yes, yes, oh, ta, mate! You’re amazing.”

“Nah, don’t mention it. This song deserves it, and I’ve got a feeling that you do too. Give ‘em the full monty, mate.”

And then Fred Astaire is on, and Jamie is in the zone, and stepping on a stage has _never_ felt this good. Taron’s eyes—that Jamie makes sure to catch as soon as he can, officially designating them as his fixed spot for pirouettes—are positively _glistening_ during the whole thing. Jamie knows the moves to this one like the back of his hand (it’s one of his favourites, after all), and he _knows _he’s good at this. He’s spinning and tapping and pointing and swirling his stick around, and the crowd are going _wild_. He suddenly remembers why he used to love doing this so much—in fact, he struggles to recall why he’s ever stopped. The song is only two-odd minutes long, and it’s over before Jamie has time to blink, and his heart almost aches when he’s taking the top hat off and bowing low and everyone’s applauding—because, for the second time in the span of less than 24 hours, he really wishes he could press _pause_ on life and enjoy Taron’s besotted expression indefinitely. He’s standing up, and he’s whooping and clapping away, and he looks _delighted_.

“Give it up for Andrew, everybody! Outstanding job!” the guy from registrations is saying through the mic as Jamie is jumping down from the stage. Taron brings him in for an eloquent hug, so warm, so tight.

“You were magnificent… _Andrew_?” Taron whispers, directly in his ear, in a slightly high-pitched voice, incredulous. When they part and Jamie looks at Taron, he is the picture of bemusement.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Jamie replies, almost as exasperated as he is elated. “What have I done?”

“Never _ever _letting go of this, I hope you know,” Taron confirms his deepest, darkest fear, merciless. “And Jamie, thank you for this. Truly. You were _mesmerising_ up there. I could have watched you dance all night.”

_You can, if you want to_, is what Jamie really wants to say. So he does. “You can, if you want to.”

“Seriously?” Taron asks, positively beaming, and what even is this warm fuzzy feeling enveloping Jamie’s heart, right now?

“Haven’t done any Gene Kelly, yet, have I?” Jamie replies, surprised at how pragmatic he sounds—the alcohol and the praise must be fueling his confidence once again.

“Oh, God. I’ll _die_.”

“Please, don’t. We kinda need you, these days, remember?” Jamie replies, and Taron laughs in earnest, and his hand grazes Jamie’s for the longest second.

“Jamie?” he starts, puppy eyes looking right into Jamie’s soul.

“Yes, Taron?”

“You’re the best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are kindly provided by Elton (duh) and the Arctic Monkeys (double duh).  
  
Gary Oldman managed to sneak his way in there, somewhere, and that’s just me projecting AF. I hope you’ll forgive me.  
  
The tap-dancing event is a [ real thing](http://www.londontapjam.com/) that happens at that Hoxton Sq. bar once a month, by the way.  
  
For everyone who could be wondering—_yes_, Jamie Bell still dances in real life. And yes, he’s very [ passionate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuA7HwD2nMo) about it, too.  
  
The Hemingway daiquiri bit is all [ phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose)’s _genius_ idea. But what else is new, really.  
  
And, of course, credit for the A-bomb goes to [ Sharonglitterbombjohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharonglitterbombjohn/pseuds/Sharonglitterbombjohn) and her amazing Jamie fic, [ Andrew and the Thunder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20067661). Please, go shower her with love.  
  
What can I say. Boy’s smitten. And he’s the most adorable show-off. And this whole thing _had_ to happen.  
I hope you’re enjoying the ride so far. Next stop is Aberystwyth’s finest. Can’t wait for you to meet him too.  
  
Lots of love.  
  
C x


	3. 3. Taron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taron Egerton is one full month into playing Elton John, and he’s loving every minute of it.  
  
However, he’s currently having a hard time coping with a squadron of dancers, loneliness, and conflicting feelings for not one, but two of his co-stars.  
  
In short, a lot of internal struggle is happening.  
  
And then there’s Elton and Bernie, up on a certain rooftop—and things are suddenly a lot clearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
  
I wish I could start this by saying shit like _wow, has it been a week already?_—but that’d make me a right hypocrite. I find myself wishing it to be Tuesday every other bloody day. Luckily, this morning the calendar did indeed say “Tuesday”, so here we are again. And I’m rambling already. Great. Let’s just get on with it, shall we?  
  
The usual words of thanks, to the usual wondrous people in my life:  
  
To my amazing beta,[ phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose), for always struggling to make my stuff better. Even if it’s a relentless game of tug of war, sometimes. I’m lucky to have you.  
  
To the crazy babes I share everything with, [ supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof) and [ Egertonsend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egertonsend), for the constant stream of ideas, for listening to me ramble on about cheesy pop music, and for always being there for me, no matter what.  
  
To Richard Madden, for being in that stupid chick-flick back in 2017 (you’ll see why).  
  
To Jamie Bell, for playing the best version of Bernie Taupin that we could ask for.  
  
Finally, to the ultimate _babie_ himself, Taron David Egerton. To his early-days Elton, his awkward dancing, his passion for his craft, and his willingness to give love—unconditionally.  
  
Here’s to my soft boy. I hope you’ll enjoy this introduction to him.  
  
P.S.: I know I've been toying with you, with my E rating an' all. But this is your first official smut warning, people.  
  
Alright alright I'll shut up now, and leave you to it. See you on the other side!

** _Part I – I can’t see straight when I’m thinking ‘bout you_ **

_T: “I’m rubbish [at dancing].”_

_J: “No, he’s good! He’s very good!”_

_T: “Well, it’s funny you should say that, Jamie. There’s one big sequence in the film where I do have to dance a little bit. And our fantastic choreographer Adam Murray sort of realised quite quickly that it wasn’t my forte, so I basically decided to do Billy Elliot. […] Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting is me, doing my very best Billy Elliot. With far less finesse than Jamie Bell did.”_

_Early September 2018_

When Taron closes the door of his London flat behind him at 6 A.M. on a Friday morning, he finally manages to take a breath for the first time in hours. They’ve been shooting for four full nights in a row, and it’s been a lot—what with jumping around everywhere in his jacket and specs, pretending he knows how to dance; singing his heart out over his recorded voice to make the whole thing more believable (Rami did a brilliant enough job of the lip-syncing thing already, plus, it’s _really _not the point of this movie); dealing with the consequences of Dexter having convinced him he can actually hold a full two-minute long shot while bopping around bumper cars and other fairground bits and bobs, _no problem mate_—except that’s _very fucking difficult_, isn’t it, Dex. In short, each and every minute of this Elton-coming-of-age scene is an excruciatingly complicated business, which he kind of reckons is fitting, really, but it is indeed taking a toll on him. Worst thing is, it’s not over—they still have one night to go.

Actually, scratch that, worst thing might actually be that Taron has realised he’s feeling kind of isolated on set, these days. It’s essentially due to the fact that this whole _Saturday Night_ business seems to imply him versus dozens of actual _walls of muscle_, for lack of a better term, and they can _dance_, and he absolutely cannot—he started this week with the conviction he could make some of the routines, quickly shifted into channelling Jamie’s glory days as Billy Elliot, and now, four days in, what he’s ultimately resolved to do is purely trying to _keep up_. Sure, there’s singing (his forte), and there’s lights and colours and cotton candy (he managed to snatch some on the first night and he’s happy to report that the thing was _edible_—and thank God Elton is not Eggsy, really, because taking a small bite quickly turned into eating the whole blasted thing, because Taron has a bigger sweet tooth than anyone across the entirety of ol’ Blighty, after all—and possibly some of Ireland, too), and everything is coated with a sheen of magic and anticipation, and everyone around him is just drop-dead gorgeous. But, hey, despite all that, there seem to be two deep holes in Taron’s heart right about now, and they just so happen to be shaped like Jamie Bell and Richard Madden. Taron is doing his best to work out _why_ exactly he misses them so much, this week they’re both off—Richard on a press tour for _Bodyguard_, which is coming out any minute, Jamie back in Billingham to see his family.

Taron is pretty sure his fascination with both men is pretty much equal. It’s kind of complicated, if he thinks about it, about _them_, collectively or on their own—so he prefers not to, most of the time, and just go with the flow. It’s easy enough when they’re around, but much more difficult when they are not, since whenever he’s left to his own devices, he does tend to get lost in his own head. And Netflix has decided to take part in the conspiracy, for some reason, because as soon as he sits down in front of the telly (still in his bathrobe after his shower, an ice-cold Bulmer’s pear cider in hand and a bowl of crisps on the coffee table in front of him) and the familiar logo appears, the very first thing that shows up on his recommendations is some cheesy-looking chick-flick called _Ibiza_. He is partial to a light movie, once in a while, plus he has no idea how much this restlessness-and-insomnia cycle he’s more or less merrily embarked himself on is going to last—he might fall asleep any minute, really, so starting anything that requires anymore mental effort and concentration than a girls’ trip to Europe involving clubbing, drugs, and fucking around seems like a moronic idea, really. Taron clicks on the thumbnail, then, and he’s more than happy to discover Gillian Jacobs is in this (_Love _is one of his favourite bits Netflix have produced, as of late, and she’s magnificent).

He is very blissfully oblivious about who the male love interest is, for approximately fifteen minutes—and then that particular bit of information quite literally hits him like a ton of bricks. That happens around the time when Gillian and her girlfriends are immersed in the strobing lights and the smoke of a night club in Barcelona, and a DJ steps on stage, and everyone is cheering and going _mental_ over him. And, _fuck_, it’s not like Taron can blame them, since it suddenly feels like the universe is playing a twisted trick on the past few days’ loneliness and touch deprivation by presenting him with _Richard Madden_ in a tight-fitting, no, _revealing_ T-shirt—and he’s effortlessly crossed the threshold of thirty, and they haven’t even dyed his hair for this, thank God. Taron cannot be sure whether this is a gift or a curse for the few minutes when Richard is not talking, and then he does, and they really had to keep his _accent_, too, didn’t they?—and it’s easy, so easy, then, to simply slip a hand beneath his bathrobe and sigh in immense relief right when Richard is saying the word _dick_, and it’s all so marvellously apropos, it almost feels unreal.

Taron is grabbing himself fully by the time Richard is offscreen and Gillian is breathing hard with her hands covering her mouth in disbelief, and wondering whether she’s going to throw up, and _same, love, same_. Taron could swear to every god people have ever believed in that no-one before has managed to convey dumb, adorable dork energy _and_ perfectly embody everything that’s most deliciously sinful in the world better than Richard in this stupid fucking movie.

What happens next is a game of awkwardly fast-forwarding through the bits Richard is not in—and, _goddamn_, he’s really not in a lot of this, is he?—using his left hand, because his right is otherwise occupied. A few minutes in, he’s hard as a rock inside his own fist, and it’s all going well, so, well, in fact, that every ounce of sleep in Taron has completely left him, and his brain is now full of clouds, and it’s not even the alcohol, no, it’s just _lust_ for Richard’s face and body and voice, spreading like wildfire and very quickly making a point of consuming his insides. Taron’s bathrobe is fully open, now, and he’s being _loud_, and he’s kind of embarrassed he doesn’t even manage to make it to the actual sex scene, since all it takes for him to climax is Richard’s voice, and the accent—it’s _always_ the fucking accent—and the curve of his ripped shoulders and his back (fuck, his _back_), wet and glistening in the colourful lights around the hot tub he’s sitting in, and Taron is imagining gripping those shoulders and digging his fingernails into the ridges of muscle on Richard’s perfectly defined back, leaving marks, and biting his neck, and Taron’s orgasm hits him, then, and it’s hard and soul-ripping, and it’s way better than anything he remembers resulting from trashy porn clips, because he’s now shooting all over his own stomach and chest, a single drip of cum landing on his lower lip, and his tongue quickly making it disappear.

He is a right mess, but he doesn’t care. He’s riding the high so much that he feels like his brain is full of helium, and he floats free like a balloon, and Richard’s eyes are the clear September sky, and he’s going up and up and up, getting lost in the blue. When he comes back to earth, he realises that he’s effectively just gotten off to Richard—his goddamned co-star—on a television screen, and he’s completely and utterly sure it’s not just carnal desire for the man that has guided him through the best damned wank he’s ever had. It’s plain as day he’s _feeling_ things, and that is in equal parts very fucking scary and one-thousand-percent natural—but, ah, if only he could be sure that Richard feels the same way about him, too. His head is full of lead, then, and Richard’s eyes are a sapphire-tinted abyss, and he’s sinking down and down and down, hopelessly crushed and breathless.

Back under the spray to scrub himself clean of the effect Richard’s just had on him, Taron tries to analyse the situation. It’s only been a month—and yet. Every day on set with Richard, it’s undeniable chemistry, high-class banter, and finishing each other’s fucking _sentences_. It’s pain and pleasure, day and night, laughter and lust. It’s stolen glances, sweet smiles, and long cigarette breaks that constantly get them both in trouble. It’s an interminable sequence of light and _completely unintentional_ grazes of fingers. It’s that bloody porch scene they filmed last week, after Taron is supposed to have sung _Tiny Dancer_ (they haven’t shot that sequence quite yet, as he still needs to perfect the vocals in the studio), when Richard handed him a cup of champagne, looked him straight in the eye and said that _where there was darkness, there is now you_, and they had to re-shoot that a couple of times, since Richard actually slipped and said _Taron_, instead of _Elton John_, and that was awkward for a second—until it was not, because Richard was blushing and looking down and shaking his head, the coy boy act he usually tries so hard to hide around Taron (and that Taron actually lives and breathes for), and Taron just wanted (still wants, in fact) to kiss and kiss and _kiss_ him.

Reminiscing about that moment—that’s what makes Taron click, and it all finally dawns on him. The unfightable awareness that Richard’s lips will soon, so soon, be _his_ to claim. Heck, he’s been reading and re-reading the directions for the closet scene, and for the dancing scene, and for the damned _sex scene_, and getting so worked up and breathless each and every time, without fail, that he cannot for one second grasp how he is going to get through this with his sanity intact. Richard’s body will be on his. Richard is going to strip him down to his birthday suit. And they are going to _make love_ for the cameras. Richard’s hands are going to be on him, and they are going to kiss, and he is going to have to fight the urge to melt into a puddle of want, because Dexter and the crew will most definitely be watching—_recording_ their every move. And, well, fuck. _Fuck_. Taron is just standing there, under the running water, and he feels drunk. Except he’s not, he’s abandoned the almost-full bottle of cider a while ago. He just happens to have worked himself into being horny for Richard once more, just by _thinking_ of him. He hasn’t even needed visual stimulation, this time. And he feels so bloody ridiculous when he slides a hand down his abdomen, reaches his crotch, and finds he is already hard, _again_, and his head is so full of doubt, so full of anticipation, so full of _Richard_, and it’s just a lot to process.

He is not sixteen anymore, though, and it’s now just past 8 A.M., and he has been awake for approximately sixteen hours, and just does _not_ have the energy for it. He turns the water to cold, then, and he hates how much that wakes him up when he’s supposed to get the fuck to sleep, right about now, but that helps to cool his skin down and bring his arousal to a brief halt, so it’s actually okay. When he’s out of the shower, he tries to discipline his hair best he can, but can’t be bothered with the hairdryer—too loud for now, because, even if he tried (and partially succeeded) to extinguish the fire on and inside his body, his head is still very much pulsating with desire and confusion. He needs a distraction, or else he will never get through the weekend without throwing caution to the wind, picking the phone up, and asking Richard to come over and wreck him until he begs for mercy.

He throws himself onto the bed at first, naked, because it’s weirdly warm for September, bordering on _horrendous_—soon as August is done, Taron usually just yearns for crisp mornings, cinnamon, cold winds, and to see condensation escape his lips every time he breathes out. He picks up his phone, considers Candy Crush for a split-second, but still ends up opening his gallery and flicking through photos from set, because he’s a hopeless doofus—and he’s still in a mood. His attention is caught by two black and white pics popping out from in-between the selfies in all the colourful outfits he’s been wearing for the past month. The first one is a professional shot of Jamie in his long hair, denim jacket, and cowboy boots, leaning against Bernie’s old-school Rover, looking handsome and moody. The next one is from the same day, and it’s the pair of them, standing next to each other, early-days Elton and Bernie, circa 1969, and all the blood is his body is flowing to his _heart_, this time, and it’s swelling up, and he’s _feeling _things again, and why the_ fuck_ is Jamie not here with him, right now?—and he just can’t anymore. He throws his phone against his pillow, swears when a soft thud informs him that it hit the headboard instead, but doesn’t bother to check on its health, because the universe just really needs to stop, this morning.

He picks up his dressing gown from the chair next to the balcony door, opens it up, and inhales the still partially crisp morning air, that he has an inkling will be turning muggy in a matter of minutes. And then he smells cigarette smoke, coming from somewhere, and bloody _Richard _is on his mind again, because of course he is, and _thoughts_ are happening again, and he _has_ to analyse the situation, he knows he does. So he straps himself in for an excruciating mental journey, and turns the engine on.

He absolutely doesn’t know what is going on in his mind, body (or heart, for that matter), at any given time, these days. He can’t quite grasp the fact that it’s _two_ people, _two_ wonderful men, making him feel the way he feels right now. Jamie is the sun, powerful and strong, illuminating and warming his soul. Richard is the moon—impossible, merciless magnetism keeping him tethered and yearning. And Taron is the Earth, and he wants them both, no, he _needs_ them both, because without them he’s just cold, and he lacks stability. This particular realisation is much easier to take in than he’d expected, really. And yet, it’s all so very thorny. It’s _messed up_, really. He knows he wants something that simply cannot be. Mind, nothing _at all_ has happened yet, with either of them, but he’s always been one to picture every possible turn of events in his head—and one he’s seeing very clearly, right now (and dreading more than anything), involves having to make a choice. And the awareness that this particular scenario is bound to irreparably break his heart is now hitting him square in the face like a rush of cold wind that reminds him of sitting on a beach in North Wales right before a storm. He so wishes that things were simpler. That social boundaries were looser. That love was just taken at face value. That _complicated_—that stupid fucking adjective they borrow from Latin, and all its declensions and synonyms in the English language—was not applicable to this whole Richard-and-Jamie business.

And then, not quite sure how it happened, he finds himself looking down at the dogs frolicking in the small green space in front of his building with a cigarette between his lips, one with those clickable filters that you can activate if you want the minty flavour (and he really wants the minty flavour very bad, right now, thank you very much), and by the fourth, maybe fifth deep drag, his head is sufficiently numb and fuzzy, and his brain is useless and tired enough to momentarily block out _Richard_ and _Jamie_, desire and lovesickness, tenderness and longing.

Taron really just needs to sleep, now. Perhaps it’ll all be clearer when he wakes up.

** _Part II – I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss_ **

_“[Taron]’s a great guy and he doesn’t take any of this for granted. He worked really hard, he’s singing all of these songs, and some of these songs are incredibly difficult to perform, and his voice only got stronger and stronger as we went, and he’s done a great job.” _– Jamie

_Next week, Monday_

Jamie is strolling back on set, and Taron suddenly can’t seem to remember why exactly people say that Mondays are hard—because, as far as he’s concerned, this particular one is extremely sweet. Must be a mixture of the sound of Durham in Jamie’s voice (stronger than ever this morning, after he spent a full week in his beloved North-Eastern hometown by the sea), and the early-Bernie Taupin look that Taron knows and loves, no, _adores_ (the cowboy attire, the swagger, and the hair, ah, the _hair_, he definitely has a thing for the hair) and the man’s sweet eyes (which Taron swears he can see _light up_ when they meet his own)_._ Or it might well just be the fact that the scene they’re filming today is yet another very emotionally charged moment between him and Jamie—no, _Elton_ _and_ _Bernie_, dammit, how many times—and that all the time he spent alone last week has helped him realise this may be his chance to try and make something out of this weird, unexplored, tender tension they have established while filming the _Your Song_ sequence. He is not quite sure of what to do about it, as of yet, but the fact that the script actually requires him to lean in and try to kiss J—_Bernie_ is giving him a boost of confidence in that aspect.

“Must admit I am quite glad you didn’t get crushed by a pile of coal, James,” Taron murmurs into a tight embrace. Jamie feels firm—no, _ripped_, beneath his shirt and leather jacket. Taron tries not to gulp too loudly at the realisation.

“Don’t ya worry, pet. Strike was on. I was spared the trouble,” Jamie replies, on cue. And, oh, God, the way he _talks_. When he disentangles from the hug, Taron half-expects to see him back in his school uniform, pirouetting and tapping about. But it’s just Jamie in front of him—gorgeous, thirtysomething Jamie Bell—and he’s playing the unsung hero, the poet, the literal rhyme and reason behind Elton becoming the absolute legend he is today, and he’s making Taron _feel_ things.

“How was home?” he asks, before he gets a chance to drift away from the present moment.

“Amazing. Mum was so chuffed to see us. Little Jack had the time of his life, and _all_ the singin’ hinnies,” Jamie replies, grinning widely. “Might be a teeny bit biased, but my boy is definitely growing up to be a looker. I need to show you pictures. But, hey, I’m elsewhere, sorry, mate. _Proper buzzin’_ to be back, hey!” Jamie finishes, and Taron wonders whether he should start filming him, sometimes, because he’s positively living for the accent and the slang, and he wants to remember it all, but Jamie is talking way too fast for him to keep up.

“You know you’re very welcome to bring him out here some time. Going to lend him that rainbow chicken headpiece Julian showed me the other day, when he does come. And that’s a promise,” Taron says, the idea of meeting Jamie Bell’s spawn suddenly warming his heart.

“Careful, might well take you up on that, sunshine. And then you’ll be out of a feathery headpiece. And Julian will have your balls. And maybe mine, for making him.”

“Ah, don’t worry, I’m sure that his cute blonde head would get him, you, and maybe even _me_ out of trouble. Y’know, for when I decide to make a move on the bloody jacket,” Taron replies, grinning at both the thrill of stealing the coveted _Tiny Dancer_ piece and the thought of little Jack Bell ripping a precious Julian Day original to shreds, looking adorable and innocent while at it. He’s seen videos. He knows what the kid is capable of. “Any’ow, you ready to go on about how _amazing_ I am for the cameras? _Shit-hot piano player_, I believe that goes?”

“Born ready, _Elton_.”

And that, incidentally, is when Dexter whistles, and everybody rounds up, and he bellows “Let’s make a movie!”, and everyone cheers and claps, and they’re off.

Jamie has been going on about America, wide open spaces, _Tower Records_, and then there’s the bit about the songs being great (which sounds more like _greeeeat_), and _that_’s when Taron is sure Jamie is slightly slipping out of character, and it’s even more amazing than when he does channel Bernie, because it’s genuine, and it’s true.

“You have an amazing voice, and I’m telling you—there is something special that happens when you sing our songs.” _Something very special, indeed._

Taron smiles at that, and goes on to deliver the next line. “You heard what Dick said—he said my hands look like a _midget boxer_’s.”

“Oh, who _cares_ what Dick thinks,” Jamie dismisses him, affectionately, and sits down beside him on the edge of the roof. Taron feels his warmth on his right side—and in his heart.

“I just don’t know if I’m what they’re looking for.” Taron turns to look properly at Jamie, and his sharp features are even more beautiful than usual in the make-believe moonlight. Jamie is inhaling deeply and staring back at him, looking very serious. And then he says the words.

“It’s time for you to be out-front.” And that is Taron’s cue to allow his eyes to slide from Jamie’s eyes to his lips, and, Lord, how he wants everyone else to disappear right now, so he could just _take_ them. He suddenly feels weirdly self-conscious, in his wig and early-seventies attire and his huge, round specs, and finds himself wishing this was just _Taron_ in front of _Jamie_, not Elton in front of Bernie, because he knows how the next bit goes for the latter pair. It’s _acting_, that’s all it is—but somehow it still feels like a stab to the heart. Taron moves his head slightly closer to Jamie’s, and he feels his hot breath graze his face, and then Jamie’s whispering, and it’s one of the best lines of the whole movie, one that perfectly sums up Elton and Bernie’s relationship. But, again, it hurts way more than it should.

“I love you, man. I do, but… not in that way.”

And then Taron is inching back, and nodding, and biting his lower lip, trying not to look too heartbroken. He can’t help but think that his complete and utter emotional involvement in this scene might well be _golden_ material for Dexter, actually, and that fuels his confidence for the next bit. He pats Jamie’s thigh in reassurance, and Jamie is now putting an arm around him, and Taron sees his huge grin, and then they both laugh, and it’s good, and it’s natural, and it’s every bit as perfect as Taron hoped it would be. As rejections go, this one sure feels sweet as the clearest acacia honey on the market.

“Eeeelton? Time for beeed!” Arabella’s singing voice comes in from off-camera. Taron looks scared and disheartened—the dread of even _thinking_ about sleeping with a woman dawning on Elton and breaking the intimate moment. But hey, that’s an excuse for Jamie to hold him a little closer still and tap affectionately on his shoulder, and Taron can’t really complain.

Dexter calls “Cut!”, and he hollers, “Well done, you bastards!” and now it’s _Jamie_ looking at Taron like he hung the motherfucking moon, and he’s smiling, and Taron knows they have at least two other angles they need to shoot this from, and, somehow, he can’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are by Jamie Lawson (with a kind hand from Ed Sheeran), and Elton. Couldn’t resist another wink to _Your Song_, now, could I.  
  
I hope you enjoyed this. If anything, I certainly had the time of my life researching Teesside slang and specialties, and screaming about it all with my love [WritingYay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingYay/pseuds/WritingYay), also known as the absolute queen of the Madderton tag. Also I fully turned little Jack Bell into a rascal, and I regret absolutely nothing. Jamie is a dad, y’all. And it looks like he’s an amazing one, too.  
  
The rooftop scene is one of my favourites. I had to include it, and I’m very glad it fit my narrative purposes.  
  
Bottom line is—yes, Taron’s a bit confused. And he’s a cutie. And he likes them both. So _very_ much. And, well, I can’t say I blame him, really.  
  
Stay tuned till next week for more from Mr. Highlands Loverboy. See you very soon, peeps.  
  
Love,  
  
C xx


	4. 4. Richard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard is having a hard time focusing on anyone—_anything_ other than Taron.  
  
Turns out that, today, he doesn’t really have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello!  
  
We’re back—and have I mentioned Tuesday is officially my new favourite day of the week? Yeah, I think I might have. Well, it’s the absolute bloody truth, innit?  
  
I’m extremely glad y’all enjoyed last week’s naughty-and-confused rendition of _Breezy Baby_. He’s indeed the fixed spot around which Jamie and Richard revolve, and it was so very important to get that one right.  
  
Usual _remerciements_ to the important people in my life:  
  
A massive thank you [ phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose), who worked _extremely_ hard on this chapter, who had to struggle against my neverending stubbornness, and to whom I am very, very grateful for working their magic and turning the whole bloody thing on its head. I truly could not have gotten this one done without you, that’s for sure.  
  
To my constant stars, [ supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof) and [ Egertonsend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egertonsend), thank you for always always always being here for me, for getting me through rough patches, and for always hyping me up.  
  
So. Here we are, then. Today, we’re coming back to Richard. We pick him up a few weeks after the events of the first chapter, after a great deal of _stuff_ has gone on. We already know how Taron feels about it all, but just what does our favourite Scottish hunk make of this seduction game that the pair of them seem to be playing, these days?  
  
Here are Richard and Taron, filming what is possibly one of my favourite scenes in the whole of _Rocketman_. One I always wondered about, really. One that makes me laugh, at first—but I end up having to fan myself by the end of it. Ah, hell, let’s just say it: one where there may or may not be _kissing_. And maybe, if you read to the end, even a tad more than kissing.  
  
As a side note—this chapter was absolute _torture_ to get out. I sincerely hope you enjoy it.  
  
See you on the other side.

** _Part I – And in response to what you whispered in my ear, I must admit, sometimes I fantasise about you too_ **

_"We kissed a lot in this film, didn’t we?”_ – Taron, to Richard

_Same week, Thursday_

Richard’s been away for ten full days, and he’s had just about enough of this _not being around Taron_ business, thank you very much. As much as Keeley and Jed and the rest of the _Bodyguard _gang are lovely and talented and just a bloody riot to be around, he really, really is glad to be back on set, this Thursday, for the recording studio piece with Elton and Kiki.

Richard’s been summoned to set one full hour and a half after everybody else, since his intervention was not required immediately. He got there in advance, anyways, because he woke up at 5 A.M. with a thought burning a hole through his brain like the ache of hunger, and yet as sweet as a chocolate-covered strawberry—he was going to _kiss_ Taron in a few hours’ time.

Kissing Taron is an idea he’s been very focused on for a little while now. It usually hits him at random times—after a long day of shooting, when Taron grabs him by the shoulders from behind and plants a wet smooch on his cheek; at lunch, when Taron is curled up on a couch with his legs crossed—his eyes expressive and kind, his gestures theatrical and hypnotical—and immersed in pleasant conversation with Dexter or Bryce or Jamie, (he can see _something_ flicker in Taron’s eyes when it comes to the latter, in particular, and he still can’t quite put a finger on how that makes him feel); when their eyes meet across a crowded room and they’re both busy doing something or being fussed about; when they’re alone, on smoking breaks, and Taron’s lips look sinful, and it’s kind of rude that they’re wrapped around the butt of a cigarette and not pressed upon Richard’s. It only makes sense, then, that kissing him is the first thing that comes to mind right after Richard gets out of his make-up chair, his Reid swagger back on and ready for battle, and he lays eyes on Taron in the recording booth.

Taron is in a _great_ outfit, today—but when is he not, these days, really. The red frames of his huge specs make him look more like Elton than ever before, in Richard’s opinion. Taron meets his gaze and looks taken aback for a second, but then he smiles the widest smile Richard’s seen on the man probably _ever_—and Richard can’t help but think he would be very partial to pressing Taron against a wall and snogging him raw, right about now. And, how very fitting it is that this precise mental image is going to be brought to life, today—because it’s only in the _fucking script_, after all, isn’t it?—and Richard is already high as a motherfucking kite at the mere thought of it.

It’s  _ Don’t Go Breaking My Heart _ , this morning, only a teeny snippet of it, and  Richard would almost think it a shame that Taron and Rachel don’t get to deliver the whole thing (they’re  _ so good _ ),  were it not for the fact that  _ he _ gets to storm in ,  interrupt  the pair’s  recording session, and spring hims elf and his  prepotent big - dick - energy  on  poor  Charlie , who is having the time of his fucking life witnessing the recording —so much so that,  for  more than one second , Richard  wonders whether he’s still embodying Ray, or if this is all  him . Probably the latter.

“Afternoon."

“John!” Charlie exclaims, acting startled, his goofy dancing session so  offensively interrupted.

“Ray,” Richard greets him, coolly, immediately turning towards the glass separating them from Taron and Rachel. That’s the cue for Taron—_Elton_—to gaze through said barrier himself, momentarily _lose it_, and call for a five-minute break.

“I’m going in,” Richard declares.

“John, we’ve got business…” comes in Charlie, feeble, his authority completely crushed.

“No, ye don’t,” Richard reassures him, and then proceeds to praise Rachel’s performance, gets a flirtatious remark on his suit right back, and then the door is closed, and it’s only him and Taron inside the recording booth.

There’s a sweet and only ever-so-slightly unwholesome exchange between the two of them which makes Richard internally cringe—Elton is so _besotted_, and Reid is so _bad_—but that leaves Reid cold and impassive, and Richard strolls into the small cabinet like he owns the place, and waits, more or less patiently, for Taron to join him. There’s a hilarious bit between Elton and Ray about whether it’d be judicious to get a pint, right about now, and Taron looks in Richard’s direction, then, and Richard doesn’t even try to channel Reid anymore. It’s not him who’s on camera, right now—they’re filming Taron—so he’s free to penetrate Reid’s armour from the inside and let _his own_ feelings show through his gaze. He does his best impression of a seductive look, and knows he’s scored when Taron’s voice breaks audibly and adorably when he utters the words, “Yeah, no, yeah, you should go for a pint!” which is _exactly_ what Dexter needs for this scene, really.

Richard finds himself _helplessly hoping_ that this is not just Taron being a wonderful Elton and faking impossibly strong sexual and romantic attraction towards Reid, because Taron simply looks _hungry_, right now—and Richard can swear he sees him nibble on his lower lip while he’s walking towards him—and _is this what they call character bleed?_ Suddenly Taron is close, so close, and he shifts towards the back of the cabinet, and Richard shuts the door with his foot and exhales audibly.

And then Taron is just there, quite literally with his back against the wall, and he continues to look at him like _that_, and fuck everything that’s sacred, Richard wants him so bad, and there’s no cameras in the tight space yet, and he could just take one little step—he’s going to have to do this later, anyway, right?—and _claim_ him. And everything going on outside is obliterated, and of course Richard does not realise that this is theoretically the time for…

“Cut!” Dexter comes in, on cue.

_ God-fucking-damn. _

Taron lets out a loud sigh. Richard does too. He can practically _see_ sparks flying between them for the brief moments they spend just standing there, not talking, looking deep into each other’s pupils, each man trying to read the other. Richard’s blood is rushing down, down, _down_ his body, and his heart is thumping, and he seriously considers doing something rash and stupid for a second—and then Taron seems to realise it’s his turn to be bold. He takes a step in Richard’s direction, the heat of his body approaching dangerously (the flaming red of his trousersa pretty spot-on representation of the heat map on Richard’s body at the moment), inches his lips close to Richard’s ear, and _words_ come out of his mouth. Richard is even less sure of what to do with himself, if at all possible—so he stands, like a statue, fighting the urge to lean into Taron’s touch.

“Rich,” he whispers, soothing, impossibly hot breath grazing Richard’s lobe. “I like you. So much. I think about you all the _fucking_ time.”

Just as Richard is taking it all in, just as he’s processing the enormity of what has just been said, just as he’s about to say it all back, and then some—just then, of course, Dexter would feel the need to call out again.

“Oi, what are you dir’y boys doin’ in _there_? Save that for the cameras, eh?” and they can hear everybody outside, laughing their arses off.

Richard doesn’t even realise he’s been holding his breath until Taron moves away a few inches, and now he’s looking up at him, smirking—and, _God_, he’s apparently not done talking.

“I _want_ you, Richard,” he murmurs, confident, languid, just before pressing his lips to Richard’s cheek—oh, and they’re soft, so soft, and he smells like Molton Brown Lavender shower gel, and there’s a _promise_, in that kiss—and Richard feels catapulted back into that identically titled and ridiculously cheesy period piece he was in, once upon a time, where he was quite literally stealing someone else’s wife. Same dynamics around each other, same level of sexual tension, same _forbidden_ taste to each grazing of fingers or exchange of glances. This is different, though, right? He’s not stealing Taron from anybody. He can just turn his face a few inches and capture those lips, assert dominance, whisper _mine_ when his tongue is not otherwise occupied—he _can_ do all that, if he wants to.

The time it takes for Richard to register all this is brief. Taron’s lips are already gone, and Richard can see him put a mask on, open the door of the cabinet and step back out into the world. Game face, quick line to defuse the tension, _Madden wouldn’t let me go, Dex, I swear!_, and that’s when Richard is hit by the crushing awareness that they are going to have to do this stupid dance around each other God knows how many times over, because he remembers Dexter explaining they need two, no, _three_ different POVs (can’t forget Charlie on the other side of the glass), plus several close-ups, to complete the prelude to the cupboard kiss. The set is complex—there’s doors and props and walking around and _so much body language_, and Richard can tell they’ll be at it for hours, and he has a raging hard-on, and fuck everything and everyone, really.

All in all, the waltzing about takes up the better part of two hours. Richard nails his bit with Charlie every single time, which is a good start—but trouble, of course, starts whenever the interactions with Taron begin. Starting from that first glance, across the glass, which the second time seems to turn Taron into a blabbering mess, and he doesn’t even make sense of the fairly straightforward line he has to deliver—asking Ray to stop the recording. Second time round, Taron forgets to reply to Rachel asking him if everything’s alright. A bit he does nail, funnily enough—and _that_ for sure is character bleed if Richard’s ever seen some happening in front of his very eyes—is the whole turning-around-and-checking-his-breath-smells-fine thing. And Richard just knows it does, since he knows Taron has a tube of Polo mints stashed in his trouser pocket. He’s seen him pop one in-between takes more than once already, probably hoping no-one noticed, and sucking on it in record time while listening to Dexter’s directions and nodding attentively.

After thirty-five interminable minutes, they manage to get that part perfectly right, which means now it’s Richard’s turn to royally fuck up—and his jumbled-up brain puts in every effort to make sure he does his best to deliver on that. At first, Richard fails to open the door to let Rachel out of the booth—pulls, instead of pushing, and wastes more than a few precious seconds wondering what the hell he’s doing wrong, before Dexter calls _cut_ and suggests he starts over.Next time, he trips over a stray cable, and he feels like that damn dumb boy Leo West all over again, except _everybody_definitely saw that happening, this time, which consequentially makes him blush like an embarrassed schoolgirl, and Charlie looks like he’s having the time of his bloody life watching him, right now, and the anxiety is back in full force for a couple minutes—in fact, he would be partial to the idea of digging himself a hole and disappearing into it.

Actually, scratch that, he might just need air and a fag, right now. And that can be arranged, he hopes, fairly easily.

“Dex,” he calls out, kicking the cable that’s tangled around his foot, half-enraged, half-exasperated.  He turns away from Taron, who just won’t stop looking at him like he wants to _eat _ him—miserably failing to put on an amused front and start chuckling benevolently like Rachel is doing, right now. Dexter pops his head out from behind the camera and gives Richard a quizzical look. After a few silent moments spent lost in thought, during which the idea of Taron’s naked body  has started to positively blur his vision, Richard finally realises he’s not saying anything, and other people are now looking at him, too. He hurries to provide  Dexter with the rest of his request. “Can I take five?

Dexter chuckles at that, and he gestures at the door with his head. “By all means, Rich,” he concedes, winks, and then says, a bit louder, “Let’s all take five, everybody!”

Well, thank _fuck_ for that, Richard wants to reply. “Cheers,” he actually says.

Richard walks out of the recording space and his assistant, bless him, is quick to hand him an unopened pack of Camels and his lighter. He takes a few, long strides along the corridor that leads out of the studio, bypasses a couple of security guards standing in front of the exit, quickly makes sure no fire alarm will go off if he pushes the bar to open the door, and finally gets out in the open. It’s a bleak day—dark clouds are looming all over Pinewood, and he can smell the promise of heavy rain in the air, but then again, this is _England_ in _September_, so where’s the surprise, really. And yet the sky is the only thing he can bear looking at, right now, since the buildings all around him are not exactly Renzo Piano chefs-d'oeuvres—and besides, every piece of brick and mortar he lays eyes on seems to want to collapse on top of him, right about now.

He desperately looks for the piece of plastic that is conveniently cut out to make opening the cigarette pack easier, and finds that this is not easy at all, what with his hands shaking and all. His breathing is rough and heavy, so much so that he finds himself briefly pondering losing the cigarette altogether. Then again, he knowsagoddamned nicotine high is the only thing that can calm him down—so a ciggie it will be, after all. The plastic film finally gives way, and the packet is open, and the aluminium is discarded too, and the mechanical gesture of bringing the yellowish-brown end of the tobacco stick to his lips (which is objectively wrong, but feels oh-so-right), and cupping his hands around it to shield it from the suddenly violent wind that is hitting him, and flicking the lighter on, and inhaling deep and strong—it all feels so very soothing and familiar that, like that, his anxiety seems to be gone, like it’s been swept away by that sudden rush of breeze.

All that’s left is _Taron_, and stolen, penetrating glances, and the _words_ he spoke, and how much Richard wishes he had time to say something back. If everything goes smoothly, they will eventually be moving on to film the actual scene in the cupboard, and Taron’s lips—oh, god, his _lips_—will be at Richard’s mercy, and they are going to _have to_ moan and sigh and breathe raggedly into each other’s mouths… and, Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Richard is going to have to do all that with his breath stinking of tobacco and his cock hard as a bloody diamond.

He only ends up smoking half the cigarette, placebo effect having kicked in approximately two milliseconds after closing his lips around the butt, and he straightens his suit, making sure no ashes have landed on it. He heads back towards the door, where he thinks it proper to ask one of the lads from security whether they might have a mint to spare—the blond giant on his right gets a pack of Fishermen’s Friends out of his jean pocket, _keep ‘em, mate_, and winks at him. Richard thanks him profusely, then starts walking back to set as he pops one into his mouth and stashes the rest inside his suit pocket.

When he walks over the threshold, he’s ready. No funny cable business, no forgetting his lines, no nothing. Just smooth, sharp, _deadly_ John Reid, on a mission to turn Elton—_Taron_—into the wanton mess Richard feels like he himself is, right now.

“All good, Rich?” asks Dexter, raising his glasses so that they rest on top of his head. He smiles. Richard smiles back.

“Golden. Thanks, Dex.”

“Grand. Back at it, then. Rachel, love, you ready?” he calls out, and Rachel turns her gaze from Taron to him, makes an OK sign with her fingers, and winks at Richard. Oh, she _knows_, alright.

Just like that, they’re back. The eye of every camera turns to Richard, and Dexter cries out “Action!” and Richard’s hand on the door once again.

“Nice job,” Richard says to Rachel, smirking, his Reid shell safely clicking back into place.

“Nice suit,” she replies, and she winks, flirtatious, gorgeous, while she walks past him and out of sight. He knows this is the time when she would turn around and make an approving noise directed at Taron—which he hears, loud and clear, before the door closes again, and they’re virtually alone and undisturbed.

“Hello,” Taron greets him, his hand resting on the mic stand next to him, looking pleasantly surprised to see him. The break must have done him good too. “What're you doing?”

“Business. And I promised if I was ever in town I’d look you up,” Richard offers, letting his brogue off the usual leash he keeps it on—Reid is way more accented than he lets himself be, these days.

“How long’re you staying?”

“Ah, not sure, that depends,” he replies, starting to walk in front of Taron, slightly circling him, like a shark assessing his prey. He has to think _Reid_, and he has to think_ cold and calculating_, but he also has to think _seduction_, and that last part is precisely the one that threatens to make him break a couple times. Fortunately, his back is to the cameras, and they don’t catch it.

“Don’t make me beg?” Taron comes in, while Richard is two thirds of the way towards his coveted destination. He turns, then, and looks back at him. He hopes he’s piercing him with his gaze the way he wants to, and he goes on to deliver his next line.

“I’ve been hearing your songs everywhere. Makes it very hard to stop thinking about you.”

“Really?” Taron asks, but it doesn’t sound like a question, not in the slightest.

That is Charlie’s cue, and the pint question comes up, and Richard is fully inside the closet and staring back at Taron, almost exactly like he did before, except he needs to be _better_. He is _John_, now, not Richard, and all the mechanical eyes are on him—and when he gestures for Taron to join him, he can distinctly pinpoint the precise moment where Taron just loses it completely. The cameras, however, don’t see anything. It’s between the two of them. Their little secret.

Taron starts walking towards Richard, and Richard can feel the tension mounting. It’s like Taron completely fills his vision, like he has a giant, glowing aura, and it’s moving closer and closer, engulfing Richard’s own, keeping it locked in, magnetic. Like the high tide, Taron flows inside the closet and completely floods Richard’s consciousness, and drowns his common sense. Taron looks into Richard's eyes, and his pupils are dilated, and Richard swears he can hear both their hearts thumping in unison, and then Taron is looking at Richard like _that_ again—like he wants to devour every bit of him—and Richard simply cannot hold himself back anymore.

He kicks the door closed, probably more heatedly than he should have, and takes a step towards Taron. Richard’s gaze drops to Taron’s lips, and Taron looks up at him through his square red specs, and Richard can distinctly read _yes, yes, yes _all over the black of his pupils. His hands come to rest on Richard’s shoulders, and Richard is delicately bringing a hand to cup Taron’s jaw and hold him in place while he approaches his lips, and it’s magical—and the lights are on, and people can probably see them, but who the fuck cares when _this_ is happening, really, and it’s _everything_ Richard’s imagined it would be—and then some.

Just as Richard can smell the mints on Taron’s breath. Just as he can feel the heat of Taron’s lips, a few inches away from his own. Just as he’s about to do it, to kiss him, to _claim_ him. Just as Taron is _letting_ him do that. Just then, _Dexter_ comes in, and it’s another cut, and there’s a round of applause from everybody outside, which really should be a cause for joy—it usually means that a scene is done, that they’ve got it—except right now it feels like Hephaestus’s net has just fallen right onto them, and that at any moment their red-hot desire will be revealed to all.

Taron’s breath is hot and charged when he sighs, no,  quietly _ groans _ in frustration, and his gaze diverts from being locked into Richard’s in favour of him trying to burn a hole through the doors of the closet. Richard chuckles nervously, because what else can he do. The cut is annoying to say the very fucking least, but he can’t help but feel a tad lighter, in his heart and spirit knowing what he knows now. Knowing Taron  _ really _ wants him as much as he said he does. The only thing that is still aching, right now, is his body—it’s completely strained towards Taron’s, electricity is prickling him from the roots of his hair to the tip of his toes, and his cock is hard—so unbelievably hard, in fact, he is almost sure Taron might be able to feel its heat burn through both their trousers.

Which is precisely why Taron  turning his head to the side comes as an unexpected and very appropriate cue for Richard to mimic Taron’s gesture from before. He approaches Taron’s ear with his lips—and he can smell him again, lavender invading his nostrils and making his head spin—and he whispers into it.

“If it weren’t obvious already,” he starts, and he can hear Taron’s breath catch in his throat as he waits for the rest. “I want you too, T. So. _Fucking_. Bad.” He murmurs the last three words impossibly softly, practically purring, inching as close as he can without touching him. His insides are on fire, and the voices in his head aren’t arguing for a change, for once they all agree—screaming _kiss him, you absolute fool _at the top of their lungs—but of course Dexter is calling out again, now, because _of-fucking-course_ he would be.

“Door _open_, boys, how many times?” A few people laugh at that. Richard and Taron very much don’t.

They need to step out of there once again and look innocent and amused, and Richard hopes to God this take was the last, because he doesn’t quite know what he’ll do with himself if it’s not.

And verdict is in, it seems, because Dexter is stepping off of his stool and walking towards them, grinning.

“Well done, boys. That was ace. I really think we've got it this time,” he announces, unexpected Hercules to Richard's Atlas, the weight of the world temporarily lifted off his shoulders.

Richard looks at Taron, and finds him already trying to meet his gaze, and he’s a mixture of elatedness and desperation—a mirror for Richard’s soul, really. “Let’s take fifteen, eh?” Dexter continues, “Need to set up for the scene inside the closet. Not like we’re leaving you two alone in there again.”

And that’s the almost insufferable (Richard loves Dexter to bits, but he has _no idea_,  goddamnit) cue for the start of the longest fifteen minutes of Richard’s life. He walks towards his dressing room and picks up the book he’s just started. None of the words  he reads register properly—he spends what feels like a week and a half on a single sentence, because his brain is completely useless right now. But being  alone is helping, indeed. He knows that  he really  needs  to  _ not _ be around Taron, in this precise moment.He is perfectly  aware that if he does get Taron alone, he will not be able to stop himself. With cameras around, at least, it’s safe.  _Isn’t it_?

Time to ponder on life, death, love and lust comes to an abrupt end when Pete, Richard's assistant, comes knocking on the door.

“They’re ready for you, Richard,” he says, through the thin layer of wood between them.

“Cheers, Pete. Be right out.”

Richard looks at himself in the mirror—sharp John Reid hasn’t got a single strand of hair out of place, thank God—and swallows the remainder of his fourth mint. He is stupidly proud of himself for not caving in and going for a second cigarette, during the break. Somehow, he’s convinced himself that smelling fresh and as if he did not have the rotten habit of polluting his lungs with tar and nicotine will make Taron want him more.

He practically  floats all the way back to the closet, and Taron is back in front of him, and oh, Christ, this is really happening, isn’t it?—and Richard can swear he hears Taron softly utter the words _ kiss me _just as Dexter is calling action—and then, like that, he’s doing it. He has to stick to a script, sure, but said script just happens to enable him to do _exactly_ what he wants .

Their lips crush, and it’s like a bonfire roaring in Richard’s whole body, and it’s actually kind of difficult to follow Dexter’s directions and not just make a tender, loving moment out of this, like his heart is currently suggesting he needs to do, right now. His cock, however, very much agrees with the rough nature of this kiss—which after all is supposed to be happening between two people who have, well, _consummated _already.

Taron is making such _pretty _noises, and his lips are so incredibly smooth, and his hands are now on Richard’s arms, quickly moving up to cup his jaw—and those hands too are soft, so soft, against Richard’s clean-shaven skin, and Richard feels every spot where Taron’s fingers graze him being set alight—which coincides with the moment when arousal gets the better of Richard, and he simply _has_ to take control of the situation, and being ferocious does not quite feel as weird or wrong anymore, really.

He presses Taron against the shelves behind him, because he has gotten to a point where he needs to pin him down and _feel_ the whole of him. Neither of them registers that someone, somewhere, has turned the light off—Richard, for his part, is a tad too busy feeling Taron’s tongue tentatively slip into his mouth, and his own is quickly engaging in a playfully erotic battle with it, and Taron is still sighing and moaning, and Richard is letting himself go, too.

After a few, brief seconds of bliss—or after several days, Richard is not quite sure—they part. It’s terrible. Richard wants more, and he wants it _now_. But oh, fuck, they still have stuff to _say_ to each other, don’t they? And the words are not anything like what he really wants to say, at the moment—which is more like something along the lines of _let’s get out of here, now_. 

It takes everything in Richard to muster the mental and physical strength to deliver his line.

“What do you want, Elton?”

At that, Taron gives Richard a puzzled look. Like he has absolutely no idea what he’s on about. Like he’s forgotten they’re actually actors making a movie. 

“Mmh, ughh, _dinnerwithyou_,” he garbles, very quickly—so quickly, he barely makes himself understood. Unspoken, but very much written all over Taron’s gaze and expression, is the alternative answer to Richard’s question: _You. All over me_. And that sends honest-to-God _shivers_ down Richard’s spine.

“So humble, it’s embarrassing,” Richard says—and, wow, he’s horny as all hell and Glasgow is in his speech, and it’s not the voluntary Reid inflection he’s been putting on these days, no, sir. This is thick, and it comes from his gut—and, somehow, he knows it will work amazingly for the scene.

Every thought of his green homeland is wiped out of his mind when his gaze drops on Taron’s mouth once again, and it’s all he can do to just rest his thumb on the side of Taron’s lips and not wipe it over them, to feel the softness once more. “You’re a millionaire rock-star who lives at home with his _mum_.” And then again… Okay, fuck it, he _is_ doing it, after all. And, yeah, even simply ghosting his fingers over them is every bit as sinful as Richard expected. He simply cannot wait to be alone with Taron and turn those perfect pink lips into a red and rough and thoroughly well-snogged mess.

And Taron does a thing, right then, where he tries to _bite_ Richard's thumb. Richard retracts it immediately, and there’s the grinding of teeth, and Taron sports a fierce and hungry expression on his face—and that whole little dance immediately gets put on a high-speed train in the direction of Richard’s already aching erection. Taron is, apparently, a _biter_. Good Lord above, if Richard does get the chance to make something out of this, he is going to need to collect himself as much as he can to avoid irreparably losing his mind.

“Things are serious, now. Be brave, think big. What do you _really _want?”

** _Part II – Love like an ache in the jaw_ **

_T: “[Kissing you] was very pleasant, you’re a very good kisser.”_

_R: “Oh, thanks Taron. Yeah, I think maybe the first couple—but then, you know, by take _ninety-five_… It’s funny when you kept saying “one more for me, one more for me”…”_

_T: “Well, I just thought we could do it better. […] I needed to feel that connection from you, so I wanted us to do the kiss at least a hundred times—and that is _not_ that unusual!” _

_Two hours later_

“_Fuck_,” Richard growls, against Taron’s neck. “How many _fucking_ takes was that, even?”

“Mmmmh,” Taron hums, his back against Richard’s trailer door. His hands are tangled in Richard’s hair, and he’s pressing himself flush against Richard’s body—and Richard can barely believe his luck, really. “Twenty? Thirty? A _thousand_?” he provides, his voice shaking, right before letting out a loud moan. Richard feels Taron’s throat vibrate with the words he still can’t believe he gets to hear from the man’s lips. “Oh, god, Dickie, I want you. I want you _now_.”

Richard  feels Taron’s throat vibrate with the words he still can’t believe he gets to hear from the man’s lips, and is quick to leave his comfortable spot inside the crook of Taron’s neckand hisnew favourite activity of kissing and licking and nipping at the impossibly soft skin there.

What  he’ s met with is an already dishevelled-looking Taron Egerton, his pupils dilated,  the short-sleeved shirt he’s wearing open to the navel—the latter might  well  be Richard’s fault, although he can’t be sure, his hands seem to move on their own accord, at the moment, without really bothering asking his brain for permission—and his lips are finally starting to approach the right shade of red and raw that Richard was looking to get them to.

Richard cups Taron’s face in both hands, loving but firm, thumbs caressing cheekbones, and he inches closer, bodies pressed together, lips hovering but not touching, heavy breaths mixing, eyes locked in a long, silent conversation that explicates everything they haven’t been able to tell each other up until now—and, fuck, Richard can feel how hard Taron is, right now, and Richard wants him _so bad_, he literally feels like his knees are about to give way.

“Bed, Taron,” are the only two words he manages to get out. Taron nods frantically, _yes, God_, but still manages to snake his hands up his neck to bring him closer, and lips are on lips again, and tongues are gliding against each other, and Richard cannot really bring himself to argue with that. He could do this _all fucking day_, and well into the night. Heck, he hopes he’ll see the sun rise tomorrow morning, and Taron will still be moaning under his touch.

“Taron—mmgh, _love_,” Richard lets out, in the split-second when their lips part—he feels wetness in his briefs, and he’s so hard, it’s getting painful. Taron gives him another of his hungry looks, and inches his mouth close once again, and playfully nibbles at Richard’s lower lip.

“Love?” he inquires, cheeky all of a sudden. Richard feels himself blush.

“Too soon?”

“After the day we’ve ‘ad? Don’t bloody think so,” Taron says, grinning and presses his mouth to Richard’s again and again. And then, like that, his back is off the door, and he’s making Richard walk backwards towards the bed—and it’s so fucking difficult to pay attention to anything else other than _Taron_, right now, and Taron is clearly in no better state, because he’s supposed to be guiding them, and still manages to push Richard against a chair, then a chest of drawers, and then he nearly makes him trip on a discarded hoodie on the floor. They’re kissing and giggling throughout this whole perilous journey, though, and everything shines just as golden as Taron, and when Richard finally sits down on his bed and Taron straddles him, he finds himself wondering whether he’s ever been this happy—whether he’s ever wanted something, _someone_, this completely and unconditionally.

Richard’s hands come to grip Taron’s hips and slide up to his middle—stabilising him, holding him in place—and then Taron is taking his shirt off, which is quickly followed by the revealing deep-neck vest he has underneath, and it’s all so very real when Richard gets back to gripping Taron by the waist and feels obliques flexing in response, and when he gets to plant a kiss in-between his pecs and then looks up at him, seeing flames burn between them.

“What do you want, Taron?” Richard murmurs, half-against his skin.

“You, Richard. I want  you.” Taron says, and Richard finds himself caught between having déjà-vu—Taron’s  eyes are filled with as much desire as they were earlier, back on set, when he was not allowed to speak his mind—and being frozen to the spot, because the words are hitting him way harder than he’d expected.  But apparently, Taron is not done.I want you. I want you naked, I want my mouth around your cock, and I want you to fuck me so hard I forget my name.” Richard’s breath catches in his throat, and he can distinctly feel every drop of blood rushing all the way to his crotch.

“_Fuck_. Yes, yes, Taron, my _God_,” Richard utters, the words flowing out of his mouth just as Taron is pushing against his chest and leaning his back down on the bed, never breaking eye contact, still straddling him—that half-lustful, half-smug look planted on his face. “I really want all of that, too. But T, we’re still at _work_…”

“Look at me, Richard,” Taron replies, serious, all of a sudden. “This,” he gestures at himself, one hand indicating up and down his body, then coming to grip his ownquite obvious erection through the fabric of his trousers, “is how you get me. Do I look like I even _remotely_ care? Just fucking _take me_.”

Richard nods, biting down hard on his lower lip, giving in against his better judgement. “Okay, okay, but _quiet_…” Dexter is just next door from them, right now, and there is no way in the fucking world he will be let in on _any_ of this.

And, like that, Richard’s self-control throws himself off a bridge, and he nods, biting down hard on his lower lip—and Taron has won. And he knows it very well, too. 

“You… have… no… idea… how long I’ve been thinking about doing this,” Taron says, leaning over Richard’s chest, making him lie down on the bed and punctuating every word with a kiss on any random part of Richard’s middle. There’s loud sighs, then, and there’s the simple, natural act of removing an item of clothing after the other, and there’s _hands _everywhere, and there’s whispered profanities, and there’s biting, and there’s kissing and kissing and _ kissing _, and skin-to-skin contact, and rolling over each other on the bed, fighting for dominance, until they’re both down to their underwear and their breaths are ragged and loud. 

“You’re even more gorgeous up close, y’know that, Madden?” Taron says, and now he’s effectively on all fours on top of Richard, forearms firmly trapping Richard’s hands, pinning them down on each side of his head in a surrender position—and he most definitely is, he is surrendering to all of this happening, and it’s the sweetest feeling in the world.

“Mmmh, love,” Richard moans, straining his neck to try and capture Taron’s lips, and failing, as Taron teases him, retracts his head just enough that Richard can’t close in on a kiss. Richard groans. Taron smiles, even more smug than before. “You’re killing me, T. Also, have you _seen _yourself in a mirror, lately? You’re _perfect_.” It feels good that the words are out, because they are so, so true.

Taron reacts to the praise, straightens his legs on each side of Richard’s body and presses their crotches together, hands and arms still outstretched and on top of Richard’s. Taron starts _grinding_ into him, hips moving slowly and expertly, cotton-clad cocks rubbing together—and Richard is on fire, and he’s arching his back into Taron’s touch, and he’s struggling under his grip, now, because he needs to touch, grab, hold, pull, _anything_, else he’ll end up losing his fucking mind.

Taron is strong, so strong, and his triceps are contracting oh so deliciously, trying to keep him in place—but Richard is on a mission. Richard manages to flip them over, and now it’s him on top, him in control, and Taron actually doesn’t look disappointed or frustrated at the realisation—not even one bit. On the contrary, this seems to rev him up even more, because now it’s _Richard_ who’s kissing Taron's neck again and grinding his hips into Taron, and Taron isbeing even more obscenely loud than before.

“Shh, shh, love, ” Richard coos, coming up to look at him. “Now, I remember  you saying something about your pretty mouth on me? I’d like tha’ a lot, actually…" he offers, planting two, three, five feathery kisses on Taron’s collarbones, maintaining the eye contact alive.

“Genius idea,” Taron replies, beaming and kissing him again, and Richard lets him, while simultaneously thrusting his hips against him one last time.

He spreads his legs on each side of Taron and lifts himself up. He walks backwards on his shins and hooks one thumb in the waistband of his briefs, running it left and right, playful, teasing, and enjoys watching Taron coming irreparably undone.

Taron is suddenly on his knees too, as if he was struck by a bolt of lightning, and his hands are on Richard’s abs, and spread-out fingers are inching down and down, until their tips sneak past the waistband and slowly, so _fucking_ slowly, they start pulling the briefs down—and green eyes are riveted to blue ones the whole time, lust and eager consent being delivered in the form of a piercing gaze that seems to send actual sparks flying everywhere. Taron continues on his merry way, and it feels like hours have passed before the briefs are finally off, but they are, oh, they _are_—and thank Christ for that, really.

Taron is on all fours, again, and he’s looking at Richard’s cock like it’s his last fucking meal, and he’s wrapping one hand around it, baring the tip—and it’s wet, so wet, already—and his tongue is on it, swift, expert, collecting everything he can get, and Richard fails to stifle a loud grunt, and his right hand is out of his control once again, fingers coming down to tangle into Taron’s short hair, gentle, thankful, and then curling in delicious surprise when the man’s lips fully close around the head of his cock. Richard then inadvertently tugs at Taron’s hair for a split-second, which makes Taron groan loudly this time, reverberating through Taron’s mouthful, and it feels so _fucking_ good, Richard finds it kind of difficult to be sorry for hurting him, and he feels like an egotistical bastard—but, God, just look at how prettyTaron is right now, and how much he seems to be enjoying himself right now.

“Didn’t mean tae—oh, _fuck_, yes, please…”  Richard tries to talk again—he feels like talking, like he needs to apologise for being rough, but it’s impossible when Taron is just there, on all fours,  winking at him, right before turning his full attention ti the cock in his mouth, letting it sink deeper and deeper into his throat—and it’s hot, and it’s wet, and the walls of his mouth are contracting, and there’s hollowed out cheeks, and there’s tongue, so much fucking tongue, and it’s _incredible_, and Richard hears words flowing out of his mouth once again, not quite sure where they’re fucking coming from.

“Perfect, Taron. You—mmmh, you’re _perfect_. Lord, the things I’m gunnae do to ye, love…”

Taron has managed to bury Richard’s cock so deep in his throat, by now, he actually _chokes _on it after Richard’s words are out. He proceeds to slide the full length of it out of his mouth—and it’s such a filthy spectacle, really, what with the amount of spit rolling down his chin (and the _sound _ of the dick popping out of his mouth is also very much doing it for Richard , too, thanks a bunch), that for a few, very long seconds,it becomes quite hard not to completely lose control.

“Oh, _please_, Dickie,” Taron says, sounding slightly wrecked himself, and lifting his chest to come eye to eye with Richard. “_Do_ tell.”

_God_, the sound of Taron’s voice and the sight of him in his present state—vulnerable, wanton, messy. Richard caresses Taron’s cheek, affectionately but also a little firmly, and Taron licks his lips, and he doesn’t stop stroking Richard’s cock.

“I’m bending you over that fancy antique table o’ yers and taking you from b—oh, _fucking hell_, Taron,” Richard exclaims, his dirty talk interrupted by Taron sinking down on his cock once again, purposefully bobbing his head up and down and stroking him with one hand at the same time.

Richard hears—no, _feels_ Taron chuckling around him, and then sliding Richard’s cock out of his mouth again, just long enough to say, “Don’t mind me, love, do go on…” before pooling spit around the head of  Richard’s cock and spreading it across the whole length of it. Which, incidentally, on top of making Richard lose his  fucking mind,  lets him in on the poorly kept secret that this is absolutely not the first time Taron has done this—and that it actually might be a hidden talent of his, and he is left to wonder whether Taron Egerton will ever stop surprising him. 

“Ye’re a dir’y wee yin, aren’t ye, T?” The Scottish brogue has come unbridled once again, except this is not for Reid-related purposes, thank Christ. No, this is Richard, in bed with Taron fucking Egerton, and it’s a whole wet dream come true, and his diction and posh accent classes that have more or less successfully tamed the Highlands in his speech over the years are gone—they’re stashed far, far inside the dark cupboard in the attic at the back of his mind—because, as he keeps having to remind himself, _this_ is now happening. Taron is on all fours in front of him, and he’s sucking him off, and he’s good at it, _incredible_, in fact, and _God_, the things he wants to do to that body—and he remembers, _that’s right_, he was going to _tell him_.

“I’m going tae make ye feel so good, love. God, I bet yer arse will look so _pretty_ when you ride me. Gunnae make ye scream all fucking night long—oh, fuck, Taron, _yesyesyes_…”

Both of Richard’s hands are now on Taron’s head, and he’s trying so hard to not be as rough as he’s used to being in bed, because this is _Taron_, for God’s sake, and he _cannot_ fuck this up—but Taron is pliant and eager, and he does not resist, and he takes Richard deep and deep and deep inside his throat, and it’s a whole fucking lot not to come there and then, really.

And then Taron shifts—one hand goes on Richard’s thigh, the other disappears from view, and his back is straighter, even a little convex, now—and Richard feels him moan again, but it’s different, this time. This time it sounds like _relief_. And when Richard looks down at him, his suspicions are confirmed—Taron is most definitely wanking himself off, right now. He has yanked his boxers off one side of his body, exposing one of his buttocks for Richard to admire, the other only partially un-clad, but still just as _magnificent_. 

Richard’s _close, Taron, so fucking close, oh, Christ_, and he’s seeing literal stars behind his closed eyes, and his head and body pick up a rocking motion—he’s pretty sure he’s full-on thrusting into Taron’s mouth, the ounce of self-control he had left most definitely melted in the heat of the small space they’re occupying, and there’s a fire in the pit of his stomach, and, before he knows, he’s grunting way too loud for the stupid thin trailer walls, and he’s shutting his eyes and arching his back, and he’s shooting hot and hard and heavy, _fuck, love, so good for me_, deep inside Taron’s throat.

He feels Taron’s throat muscles contracting around his cock again and again, and his tongue has not stopped moving, milking Richard’s still pulsating length of each and every drop he can swallow. Richard rides his orgasm high, and it’s sweet, and it’s delicious, and he never ever wants it to fade away. Except the haze is already leaving him, and Taron is moaning like crazy under his own touch, and Richard knows he needs attention too, and he is determined to return the favour in full. He caresses Taron’s cheek and is unsurprised, if a little unhappy (and yet, why is that so _hot_?) to find it’s wet. Taron glances up to meet his eyes, as Richard’s thumb strokes his cheekbone, affectionately. Richard feels himself smiling sweetly down at him through his descent—and perhaps that’s what it takes for Taron to let go. Sliding out of the man’s mouth is the hardest thing Richard’s ever done, he feels, but he’s now painfully aware of Taron’s hand moving more and more frantically on his own cock, and he _has _to act.

“That was just—bloody _unreal_, Taron, fucking ’ell,” Richard says, and somehow the praise rolling off his tongue seems to do it for Taron, whose lips are parted and red and raw, and the arousal on his face is complete and perfect, and his cock is disappearing inside his fist at an increasingly faster pace. Richard wants it to be _his _hands, doing that, right the fuck now. “C’mon, love, let me, please, I want tae make _you_ feel good, now. Look at how gorgeous y’are, Taron, _fuck_. Perfect. ”

Taron seems to be completely disarmed by Richard’s words. All he seems to be able to do is lie back on the bed, his legs slightly spread, hands mimicking Richard’s surrendering pose from before, and he’s actually saying _I’m yours, Richard_, and Richard lies on his side next to him and immediately zeroes in, lips and teeth back in the crook of Taron’s neck, hand playfully swatting away Taron’s, _my turn now, love_, and his fingers wrap around Taron's cock, and it’s so thick and hot and hard, it’s making Richard’s head spin with desire.

Alongside stroking Taron to try and get him over the edge, Richard is enjoying _biting _him quite a bit—which leads to whining and purring, moaning and groaning, and Taron being louder and louder and louder, and Richard_has_ to do something about it, because Dexter is just next door from them, right now, and there is no way in the fucking world he can hear any of this. He climbs on top of Taron, then, sitting on his thighs, straddling him like Taron was doing before, and continues to jerk him off while he brings what he hopes is an eloquent hand to Taron’s mouth. He cups his palm and presses on the man’s lips, gently but firmly, as he leans in enough to feel hot breath coming out of his nostrils, and to gaze deep into the light green of his eyes, which is now completely drenched in black treacle.

“Loud, love. You’re being so _ loud _…” he explains, right as Taron’s eyelids seem to give way. Richard is sure he can see whites as Taron's eyes roll inside his skull—and that’s when he knows. Or, at least, he thinks he does. Asking never hurts, anyway. 

“Oh, God, Taron,” he begins, and he feels a mischievous smile creep around the corners of his mouth. “You _like_ this, don’t ye?” 

And at that Taron is nodding uncontrollably, and he’s mumbling nonsense against Richard’s hand—and it’s muffled but _loud_ nonetheless, which prompts Richard to press his hand harder against Taron’s mouth, _quiet, love, be good for me?_ and Taron just starts bucking his hips into Richard's touch, and after a few seconds he’s coming hard all over his stomach and chest, and he’s being even louder, if at all possible, and Richard wonders if he’s ever seen or heard something so beautiful in his life.

There’s an endless string of kisses, then, and there’s cleaning each other up with warm cloths, and there’s more kissing while they settle under the covers, because fuck, they’re physically spent—and emotional exhaustion is also hitting, big time.

The next day, there are phone calls and whispered confessions about wild fantasies, and there’s the promise of meeting up at Taron’s apartment to _rehearse_ the sex scene that Dexter has warned them is coming up next week.

That inevitably turns into the whole wet dream come true that is sinking into Taron for the first time, and then a second, and a fourth, and an eighth, and then two full days have passed with them barely bothering to wear clothes to open the door to the various delivery men they summon for sustenance—and then the weekend is over _way_ too quickly, and they’ve run out of virgin surfaces to do it on, and it’s the best kind of love, sex, and pure fucking _electricity _that Richard’s ever experienced with anybody, and going back to work on Monday is kind of excruciating, because he never, ever wants it to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …right. So there was smut. A bit. I hope you didn’t mind?  
  
Titles are by my one and only, my favourite music boy, Alexander David Turner. Goddamned _poet_.  
  
Thanks again to [ phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) for helping me find the right Greek mythology metaphor—and for everything else, really. You’re a true peach.  
  
This chapter was hard, and I kind of ended up hating it. I hope it didn’t show too too much.  
  
Next week, we’re back to my _favourite_ boy—Jamie.  
  
Have a good one, y’all.  
  
Love,  
  
C xx


	5. 5. Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gin. 
> 
> TfL. 
> 
> Brexit. 
> 
> _Taron_
> 
> Or, basically, one where Jamie has it _all_ thrown his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Jesus _shit_, Bernie. 
> 
> Here we are, people. This is it. This is the chapter that started it _all_. God only knows it had to be the fifth chapter, with 5 being my absolute favourite number and all that—but then again, _cosmically tethered_ really is a thing, innit? 
> 
> I have _so much_ to say about this one that I think the notes may well become a whole side chapter if I’m not careful. But before I dig any deeper, let me get into the usual words of thanks. 
> 
> My personal cheerleaders (and currently sharing the title of favourite people in the world with the three dumb-dumbs this story is all about), [ supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof) and [ Egertonsend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egertonsend): I don’t know how we even got this far, but I sure am a happier person because of it—heck, because of _you_. I will forever be grateful to you both for pushing me to do this. I love you a whole lot. 
> 
> [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=), thank you for another great beta. And, again, thank you for putting up with me, and for not getting tired of our constant game of tug of war. You’re very precious to me, I hope you know it. 
> 
> Right. _Right_. Here we go. 
> 
> So. This whole thing started on a Wednesday morning, when I was up _way_ too early to hop on a plane to my favourite place in the whole world—which, of course, is London town. Right then, it hit me. The realisation that Jamie Bell—_the_ Jamie Bell—starred in the [music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NU9JoFKlaZ0) for Green Day’s _Wake Me Up When September Ends_, way back in the day, as the young soldier who gets brutally killed in battle. Not like it’s one of my favourite songs of all time. No big fucking deal, eh? 
> 
> Anyhoo. This complete mindfuck then sent me down a damn deep rabbit hole, that eventually got me to [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gOVmNl7cseQ). So, yeah—writing about drunk Jamie on the plane it was. And continuing this pleasant activity in the suggestive backdrop of the South Bank had to be a thing, too. It all kind of came to me in a wave of inspiration, and it’s still to this day my favourite thing I’ve ever written. Dick James would say “don’t break your neck sucking your own cock”, and he’d be right, to be honest, but oh, well. *raises shoulders* 
> 
> And then, the second part is… oh, you know what? I’ll let you find out what the second part is all about as you read along. I’ll be damned if I spoil anything. I’m just gonna leave [this](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4hdyWEOB47s/VqusBKBB4iI/AAAAAAAC-0U/XZ4N_lRmgn4/s1600/jamie%2Bbell%2Bshirtless.jpg) and [this](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/15/34/af/1534af8787a67ce16860050bf6878ec5.jpg) here, though. For visual reference, y’know. You’re very welcome. 
> 
> Let’s get into this. Wow, I’m so fucking excited.

** _Part I – What exactly is that you’ve been drinking these days?_ **

_“Technically speaking, I’m drunk all the time. […] The one thing I will never drink is probably gin, because when I was in school I got really battered on gin, and ended up throwing up, and the next morning—my mum knew that I was nicking gin from the kitchen and I got drunk, and she still made me go to school anyway, but to be fair if gin is the only thing that’s there I’ll probably just drink it anyway.” _– Jamie

Jamie wakes up on a Tuesday morning with a roaring headache. He drags himself to the bathroom and peers at his face in the mirror. A horrified expression forms on it as soon as he notices that he’s still wearing the Bernie wig, which is completely all over the place by now, yet still hanging on for dear life to the spots Lizzie usually applies special glue to, to keep it in place.

He has little recollection of what happened last night. He vaguely remembers sitting on Taron’s couch in his trailer, knocking down a few beers, talking about shitty horror movies, listening to old music—just, generally, having a laugh. Taron had been in a big McCartney mood all day, that manifested through him randomly belting out _Band on the Run_ in the middle of a foundation touch-up (which had Lizzie quite startled for a second), _Maybe I’m Amazed_ mid-bite of a chicken quesadilla at lunch, and _Driving Rain_ while, shimmying out of a particularly colourful Elton number, he turned to face a window and caught a glimpse of the god-awful weather that the late September afternoon in Southern England had in store for them.

It’s not the first time Taron’s done that, either. In fact, whenever these impromptu musical numbers manifest themselves, out of the blue at the best of times, Jamie cannot help but stop whatever he’s doing and just stand and listen and _stare_. The singing is always, quite simply, _lovely_. Never obnoxiously loud, yet always perfectly clear to everybody’s ears, and Taron’s mellifluous voice very rarely hits a false note or misses a beat—and it never, _ever_ fails to leave Jamie hanging off the boy’s lips, begging for more.

After a mere couple of days spent with him on set, Jamie quickly realised that not only is he a sucker for Taron’s singing, but for Taron _in general_. The way that dreamy Welsh face lights up whenever he sees Jamie approach him with a cup of steaming Yorkshire Tea (milk, two sugars) has very quickly become one of Jamie’s favourite things to ever have existed in the whole goddamn history of the world—or, at least, since he was in that other movie, approximately _one-hundred-and-fifty-years-ago_, that made Elton bawl his eyes out at the Cannes premiere.

Now they’re almost two months into filming this big fuck-off musical about Elton’s life, and Jamie’s _infatuation_ (for lack of a better word) with his co-star is proving increasingly difficult to hide. Sometimes Taron just raises an eyebrow or smirks at him in that unmistakeable way that just _screams_ Eggsy Unwin, and he has Jamie squirming in his flamboyant shirts and cowboy boots in a way he’s never quite experienced before.

It’s gotten to the point where Jamie has to give himself a pep talk of sorts every single morning before going on set, in order to try and stay focused at least through the first five bloody minutes of Taron Egerton in the scruffy early-Elton hair, looking at him like he (no, _Bernie_—Jamie does get confused, sometimes) is a gift from fucking God above. Jamie can’t quite believe he’s been in the industry for twenty-odd years, always coping relatively well with roles that ultimately ended up taking way more out of him than bubbly, artsy, poet Bernie Taupin is currently doing—and yet he’s now suddenly having to go through all whatever _this_ is to properly prep for a scene. Taron is definitely, _definitely_ on a daily mission to make him lose his shit, and it pains Jamie to admit he really stopped trying to resist the man approximately four days into their first week of shooting. He’s surprised he even lasted that long, if he’s honest, since he knows perfectly well that, whenever he attempts a sassy retort to the innuendos or bum squeezes or grazing of fingers over the Regency Café table, Taron will just fucking _smile_ again, and it’ll be wicked and delicious, and Jamie’s head will just be _spinning _with desire. Because it’s like that every single time, without fail, and it’s starting to drive Jamie absolutely bloody insane.

_Gin_ is something Jamie nebulously recalls appearing at some point last night. Despite the comment that Jamie distinctly remembers making on the night he did his best impression of Fred Astaire for Taron’s entertainment (a comment that the man clearly seemed not to recall at all), Taron whipped a full bottle of Hendrick’s out from a brown paper bag and settled it on the coffee table between them. Bottom line is that gin is something Jamie usually avoids like the plague, if he can at all manage—the memory of nicking the stuff from the kitchen cabinet and getting plastered one night (and his mum still making him go to school the next morning) is still as fresh in his mind as the day it happened. Then again, if gin is the only thing that’s around, he _will_ make the excruciating effort to drink it. Sacrificing himself for his country, an’ all that. Recollections of filming that fecking Green Day video (which also happened, more or less, _one hundred_ years ago) flood his mind for a second, and he just chuckles to himself and wonders if he was actually ever that young. The migraine currently making his brain pirouette in his skull in the most painful way possible seems to passionately disagree with that statement. Hitting his thirties two years ago is quite possibly the worst idea he’s _ever_ had.

Matter-of-factly, he resolves that whoever invented mornings-after should be shot dead and left to rot on the side of a dirt road. He then proceeds to peel the awful Bernie wig completely off, lets two aspirin tablets fizz in a tall glass of water, downs it, and gets into the shower, desperately looking for some clarity.

On cue, the pills start working approximately ten minutes into him standing under the spray, and, _fuck_, everything from the previous night seems to rush back at once, in one swift wave that smells like the eucalyptus and rosemary shower gel he’s become addicted to in the past month or so, and tastes like _him_. Taron. And, holy _fucking_ Moses, that indeed is _a lot_ to take in first thing in the morning.

What Jamie now recalls with renewed lucidity is the gin and ginger beer swirling around in his mouth for _hours_ (that felt more like three whole fucking days), the previously virgin bottle running out and lying discarded on the side of the couch much more quickly than it’s commonly considered sensible for a Monday night, and that the banter had started to get dirtier and dirtier, and Taron’s hands grabbier, and his body closer, and his scent intoxicating, and his lips wonderfully soft, and his tongue just _heavenly_.

The rest of it is a bit of a blur. The things that were said, for example, almost completely slip Jamie’s mind. Key word here being _almost_. If he has to take a wild guess, he reckons he might have told Taron something about how filming that _Your Song_ sequence had perhaps been the pinnacle of his whole career in cinema, and Taron might have blushed a little too hard at that, and such a reaction might just have elated Jamie way more than he’d imagined it would. There probably also had been a mention of that rooftop scene they’d just shot the other day, and how having Taron _this_ close to him, his eyes transfixed on Jamie’s lips, and having to _reject_ him had hurt Jamie in a way that was just stupid and irrational—and, God, if the level of _pretty_ Taron had looked when those words were finally been said out loud had been captured in a painting, well, Jamie could bet art historians of the future would be talking about it for millennia.

He remembers some more endless _gushing _then—and the conclusion he finally comes to in order to justify whatever on God’s green Earth ended up happening after _all that_ is that Taron visibly had been just as smitten with Jamie as Jamie is with Taron, and possibly for the same amount of time, too. Jamie has to turn the shower handle to a colder temperature setting, now, because the mere recollection of Taron’s skin against his is making all the blood in his body rush to his cock, and he doesn’t know whether he has the energy to do something about it right now—his head is still pulsating, and his senses are still numbed. All except for his touch and his hearing, in fact, which seem to have been turned up to eleven, and the sound of the rippling water over his body and onto the shower floor won’t leave him alone for even a bloody second, and the film playing in his head makes his skin tingle in a delightful way that is constantly shifting between pleasure and pain. Or, thinking about it, that might also be the fact that the water is ice-cold—he can’t really be sure right now.

One thing Jamie _is_ sure of is that nothing in his whole existence has ever felt better than plunging into Taron, his legs sprawled open on the bed, his mouth hanging agape and letting out what Jamie is pretty positive were the sweetest sounds known to man. There Jamie had been, a few hours before, thinking nothing could ever sound better than Taron singing gorgeous songs at random moments of the day, and then, just hours later—pounding relentlessly into Taron’s impossible heat—well, he stands corrected.

Jamie can still feel Taron _everywhere_—strong thighs closed around Jamie’s minute waist, his fingernails scratching Jamie’s back at Jamie’s more intense thrusts, his teeth idly nibbling on Jamie’s earlobe when the rhythm got slower and more deliberate. He now somehow distinctly recalls a few of those latter instances—he is rudely reminded of the way he’d gone about sliding completely out and in again, making Taron gasp in surprise whenever he got completely inside and managed a lucky brush against the sweetest spot inside of him. Remembering the noises _that_ had gotten out of Taron is an activity that is currently threatening to take the remainder of Jamie’s sanity and throw it right into the Thames, never to be retrieved again—or, even better, into a pool of sulfuric acid, melting it down to absolute nothingness.

At this, he finally caves—fuck his hangover and fuck the absolute _joke_ that his self-control has become in the past couple of months. His right hand wanders through the short hairs trailing from his navel to his crotch, and he grabs himself, and he cannot quite comprehend how hard he is just at the thought of possibly getting to do _that_ with Taron all over again—except he really can, and he knows that thought is exactly what gets him over the edge in an amount of time some would call _embarrassing_. He’s suddenly taken back to being a horny fourteen-year-old wanking off to pictures of Jude Law in his childhood bedroom in Billingham, because he’s now crying out in a weird mixture of crippling shame and earth-shattering bliss, and he’s spilling hot and white on the shower walls and floor, and he’s positively _convulsing_ with the intensity of it all.

** _Part II – Trust the politics to come along, when you were just trying to orbit the sun / I can lift you up another semitone_ **

_“Anything you [Americans] can do, we can do just as stupidly.” _– Jamie, about British politics (2019)

_“A man should be good at oral sex.”_ – Jamie, for British GQ (2012)

_Two days later_

Jamie gets out of the shower and into his bathrobe, not even sparing a thought for the hairdryer that’s lying, expectant, on the side of his sink. He combs his hair back, looks himself in the mirror once more and, like most mornings lately, he finds himself wondering why his barber has decided to go for a closer buzzcut than usual on the back of his head. A full seven days in, he is now one hundred percent sure he absolutely fucking hates it—he so wishes he had the flare and the bone structure for it, but he is as far from Cillian goddamn Murphy as it gets, what with the man constantly serving Britain and the rest of the world with the stupid baby blues and the motherfucking cheekbones and the cutthroat jawline (and, heck, is it possible that even the man’s _skull_ looks pretty?), and Jamie most definitely not having all of _that_ to his name. Plus, there’s the hideous bloody ears to account for—which might have been cute on _Billy Elliot_, perhaps, but that look more than out of place when one walks over the threshold of thirty; overall, Jamie is starting to definitely consider going to a different barber, from now on. Straightening a loose strand that is resting on his forehead, he also briefly ponders calling his agent and inquiring about the possibility of auditioning for _Peaky_. He quickly decides against it, though—what storyline would a Teesside accent even fit in, anyways, eh? Ah, fuck, what he really needs to do is get tickets for _Grief is the Thing with Feathers_, as soon as they come out. Thank Christ it’s playing at the Barbican, of all places, and that six months ago he decided to bite the bullet and invest in a membership there (_hell_ yeah for priority access).

_Anyways_. Jamie really needs to get a grip with this losing-his-train-of-thought crap, since Ireland’s best is really not the point, this morning. The point is very much from North Wales, as it happens—but what else is new, these days, really. And the point is that he sent Jamie a text, last night, asking him to come over for lunch on their day off. And Jamie hasn’t had the chance to talk to Taron in person since what he’s been labelling as the _Gin Incident_, the day before yesterday (although Jamie is proud—and very relieved—to report that multiple slightly cheesy and bordering on racy texts have indeed been exchanged), and he really, really wants to ask him about a million and a half way more _direct_ questions about whatever the fuck happened between them.

Summoned to Chelsea he is, then, and the Jubilee line is not running, because of _course _it isn’t—why should TfL help a lad get to his coveted destination safely and on the speediest, most modern line in the whole of the City, when they can send him on an interminable journey that will most definitely make him late? Where’s the _fun_ in that, eh? It’s the DLR, then—funnily enough, still Jamie’s favourite means of transport in the whole entire world—and then the District line from Bank (no, _Monument_ station—because, again, London is a confusing place). And there’s phone reception on those trains, thank God, so he can drop a quick text into Aberystwyth’s sweetheart’s inbox, letting him know that Jamie will, indeed, be late—but that he is, most definitely, on his way.

As soon as he hits _send_ on the text to the person who might well be the number one priority in his life right now (or, more realistically, a very close second to the blond toddler that shares his last name and half of his genes), Jamie somehow ends up thinking it’ll be a good idea to open the BBC News app on his phone—and instantly regrets it, since it takes him approximately ten seconds of diagonal reading through the titles to get absolutely bloody _cross_, because the country is, quite simply, a disgrace. Has been for quite some time, in fact. Despite his and everyone else’s best efforts on social media during the campaign, the leftists still miserably lost the last General Election, and that pillock May is _still_ running the country, and Jamie’s blood _boils_ every time he sees her vicious smile on every bit of press he can get his hands on—and oh, wow, speak of the Devil, here she is again, smug face front and centre, coming at the British public with an update on bloody _Brexit_, for a change. By the time the train gets to Blackfriars, Jamie’s anger is so hot and pulsating that he genuinely feels he might risk melting his seat and the two adjacent ones down to a puddle of metal, plastic, and filthy polyamide. The EU are offering the UK to stay in the European Economic Area and still benefit from the customs union, which is unhoped for, really, what with the disastrous state of diplomacy, these days. But Theresa is labelling it a _mockery_, apparently, because why would the Tories admit that the 2016 referendum was no more than a hugely stupid fucking idea, say _sorry, guys, our bad_, and back-pedal when they still can, when they can be stubborn as the big mules they clearly are and try and go all the way, even if the whole thing has been presaging nothing but _rough_ _sodomy_ (and not the good kind) coming for the UK for quite some time, now? What is even more _grand_ is that there is a second option, involving a basic free trade agreement for Great Britain that would introduce checks at the Great Britain/EU border—but that one too is already a big no-no for Parliament, apparently, what with the modern Irish question (that would not have been a _thing_ at all, whatsoever, had it not been for the dim-witted lot who crossed that _Leave_ box on that blasted Thursday in late June, two years ago). Wannabe-Thatcher goes on a bit more on both options, concludes that absolutely fucking nothing is good enough for her, and has the audacity to say she’s been treating the EU with “nothing but respect”, and Jamie finds himself stifling a bitter laugh at that, just as a sea of people exits the train at Victoria. What makes him crack and nearly has him smash his phone against the nearest hard surface, though, is the line “I will not overturn the result of the referendum,” because no _fucking_ shit she won’t—that would be too smart an idea, after all.

Bottom line, the country is in deep horseshit, and this whole thing sucks balls, big fucking time. But Jamie is finally in Sloane Square, and he has just one stop left to force himself to regain some kind of Zen calmness, before he gets to dive into the tourist madness of Chelsea and jeopardise his mental stability all over again. He has to, because it’s completely out of the question that he shows up to Taron’s in such a rotten mood, when all he should be thinking about is his stupid perfect smile, the curve of his arse, and the potential of bending him over any available surface. And yeah, that mental image indeed does _wonders_ to get his mind off the rotten state of British politics in 2018.

South _fucking_ Kensington is busy as ever, and Jamie gets in the stupid museums tunnel and immediately cannot wait to get back out. He truly cannot comprehend how Taron ever thought it a good idea to get a flat right behind the bloody V&A, when he could literally live like a sultan in any other less crowded area of London for the same rent price (which is _exorbitant_, of course). Then again, maybe he has an inkling after all. And the reason probably has to do with the Royal Albert Hall being within walking distance of Taron’s flat, and Taron (not-so) secretly being a sucker for classical music and film soundtracks (and even maybe opera, on a good day, who knows). And, because Taron always gets exactly what he wants, the strategic location only makes sense, after all.

When his very unrelaxing, tourist-packed five-minute walk is done, Jamie finds himself ringing Taron’s doorbell, and his stomach does a dozen somersaults in the span of three seconds, and by the time Taron is buzzing him in he feels_ supercharged_. When he gets in the lift and presses the smooth, circular _5_ button, he finds himself wondering how Taron is going to greet him, in a few moments’ time. Because—sure, they were drunk. And they were unhinged. But, hey, they also were and still are very close friends. And apparently, they had liked each other for weeks, before anything happened. And, heck, they did _fuck_, after all, didn’t they? Surely that means something?

Jamie gets out of the lift wishing he’d worn the T-shirt his best mate from home got him a couple of years ago, the one that states _I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE_ in bold, capital letters—and then, all of a sudden, he _does_ have a fucking clue, because Taron is there, leaning on his doorframe and looking casually _gorgeous_ in light grey, way-too-tight trackies and a plain white tee, and his smile widens when their eyes meet properly, and Jamie can barely open his mouth to say a weak _hey_ before Taron has pulled him in by the lapels of his leather jacket, closed the door, and pressed him against it, crushing their lips together, all in one swift motion.

Jamie’s eyes remain open in shock for a few seconds, but he quickly relaxes into Taron’s touch—makes a point of deepening the kiss, in fact, tongue asking for permission and being more than eagerly indulged by Taron’s parted lips. Jamie can distinctly taste a hint of minty toothpaste, then, but also, for some reason, coffee (and even maybe chocolate chip cookies), and he finds it hilarious that Taron very clearly must have had second thoughts after brushing his teeth and grabbed another spell of breakfast. By the time they part, Jamie is fully smiling against Taron’s lips.

“Oh, alright then, _this_ is happening, I guess?” Jamie asks, pleasantly surprised.

“You’re _late_, Jamie Bell,” Taron says, furrowing his brow, fake-annoyed. “And a good morrow to you too, by the way”, he adds, kissing Jamie again, nipping softly at his bottom lip, and _beaming _through it all. “I can tone it down, if you like?”

“_Never_,” Jamie hears himself say, way more boldly than he usually is in such contexts. “In fact, please indicate where the knob is, so I can turn it all the way up.”

Ah, damn Jamie and his Freudian slips.

“Oh, love, I think you know _very well_ where the knob is, by this point, don’t ya?” Taron comes in, merciless, playfully biting down on his lower lip.

“Oh, well, s’pose I do, don’t I?” Jamie replies, deciding to play along, because he’s actually quite enjoying the whole sexy mood that they’ve managed to establish in the span of less than one minute—and somehow all doubt has been flushed out of his mind, and he’s now moved on to wonder whether they’ll even make it to lunch before all their clothes decorate the light wooden floors of Taron’s apartment.

Taron chuckles and kisses him again, hands cupping his jaw, and Jamie’s come to rest on Taron’s chest, feeling his broad pecs and the beat of his heart through the light cotton of the T-shirt he’s wearing.

“Mmmh,” Taron hums against his lips. “Fuck me, you smell _good_, J,” he says, appreciatively, moving to his right to nuzzle the crook of Jamie’s neck, and inhaling deeply. “You smell like… a steam room? Does that fancy Docklands penthouse o’ yours have a bloody _steam room_, Mr. Fancy-Pants?”

“Oh, no, it’s just me shower gel,” Jamie dismisses him, trying and failing to shrug at the comment on his Canary Wharf apartment overlooking both Canada Square _and_ the Thames—ah, well, alright, he supposes a penthouse with a spectacular view on both fronts might just be _a bit_ fancy. Oh, and Taron is now kissing his neck, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep a straight face—just even to _think _straight, really—and everything’s just _grand_.

“Well, me birthday’s coming up, so if you’re unsure what to get me, _please _sign me up for a lifetime supply of that,” Taron says, against his skin, punctuating every few words with a kiss.

“Sure thing, _pet_,” Jamie says, and the nickname escapes his lips before he has the time to think twice about it, but Taron _purrs_ into his neck, and Jamie knows he’s on the right path. He voices his thoughts, then. “And to think I was mad about Brexit, ten minutes ago…”

Taron moves up from his neck to nibble on Jamie’s earlobe. His teeth are delicate and teasing, and breath is soft and warm against Jamie’s skin, and he’s murmuring, “You’re _always_ mad about Brexit, James,” which is an absolute bloody _fact_—but then why does it sound so _erotic_? Jamie finally tells himself that he might as well cease to try and comprehend the whole obscure sexual mystery that is Taron Egerton, and simply strap himself in and get comfortable for the ride. “Want me to take your mind off things, hot-headed boy?” Taron offers.

At that, Jamie shivers, and he feels a slight whimper escape his lips, just as Taron emerges from his mischievous business around Jamie’s earlobe and shoots him what can only be described as an _eloquent_ gaze. And Jamie is suddenly feeling weak, so weak, and he feels a quick rush of blood flowing to his nether regions, and he’s very quickly pulling on Taron’s T-shirt to bring his mouth closer still. He does not capture it in a kiss, however, not yet—because he still has to answer Taron’s question.

“I would _love_ that, sunshine,” he says, eye contact firmly in place, lips barely grazing Taron’s, the grip on the light cotton a tad firmer still. Something seems to flicker inside Taron’s eyes, and he smirks wickedly, before capturing Jamie’s lower lip in-between his teeth.

“Good thing I haven’t managed to get started on lunch, then, eh?” Taron says, and Jamie cannot believe his cheek, for a second—but, hey, he now wants him even more. He scans his brain thoroughly for a suitable reply to the man’s confession, locates the possibility for a bold retort of his own, and jumps on the chance.

“What were you planning on feeding me, then, sweet’eart?”

“Oh, James,” Taron replies, as he gets back to tugging the lapels of Jamie’s jacket and starts walking backwards, pulling Jamie in the direction of what he can only hope is the bedroom. “I was quite hoping you’d like to eat _me_.”

Oh, _good God_. There goes the moment when Jamie definitely starts to regret the skinny jeans—his cock is so hard, all of a sudden, that he feels like his flies might well give way any minute.

“Good thing I’m _starving_, then, innit?” he replies, smirking, fairly proud of himself. Jamie watches Taron take that one in and lick his lips, and he seizes the opportunity to grab his wrists and pin him against the nearest portion of wall that is not covered in framed movie posters. Jamie’s mouth automatically approaches Taron’s neck and his lips just ghost the sensitive skin there, not quite allowing himself to kiss it yet.

“Fuck, Jamie…” Taron sighs, melting under his touch, which is Jamie’s cue to start planting wet, wanton smooches on his neck. Taron hums and moans a tad more. “I, mmmh… I literally can’t stop thinking about you. I—_oh_, that is _great_, fuck…,” he says, appreciatively, as Jamie delicately bites and sucks at one spot right behind his ear. “You take my breath away, love.” The line makes Jamie’s knee buckle and almost drop the serious, half-dominant act he’s managed to put on. He feels a rush of blood to his heart, then—affection and _relief_ taking over his whole body.

“Take it you don’t regret the absolute drunken mess we made of ourselves, then?” Jamie teases, comforted, moving on to leave a string of kisses along Taron’s sharp jaw.

“Are you kidding? Been wanting to do that for _weeks_. I guess… oh, _yes_,” he moans, fingers coming to caress the short hair on the back of Jamie’s head. “I guess I just needed some liquid courage, didn’t I?”

“Hmm-hmm…” Jamie replies, nibbling at a bit of skin on Taron’s chin. “I absolutely hate that you made me like _gin_, of all things, Taron,” he continues, as one of his hands is travelling down to finger the waistband of Taron’s trackies. Taron whimpers against his touch and uses his one free hand to grab Jamie’s forearm, guiding his hand past the stretchy fabric, giving him permission.

“Oh, Jamie…” he moans, as soon as Jamie obliges and crosses the forbidden threshold with his fingers, as painfully slowly as he can manage.

“Yes, pet?”

“You’re talking _so much_… Please just… Oh, _fuck_, yes…”

Jamie’s hand is fully inside, now, and he’s only half-surprised to discover Taron is not wearing any pants underneath. When he wraps his hand around his cock, it’s already hard and ready for him, and the tip is leaking precum all over his fingers, and it’s already almost too hot to handle, honestly. Jamie’s insides stir furiously at the thought of being inside him again—sober, this time, all his senses alight and ready to _feel _all of it happen, and being able to remember every second of it.

“What did you want to say, love?” Jamie inquires, quite enjoying being in control and seeing Taron coming undone before his eyes. He picks up a steady pace on Taron’s rock-hard length, and the sounds he gets out of him are every bit as pretty as the ones he only vaguely remembers from two nights ago—the alcohol was a lot, and the memories are hazy. But this, now, is something else. This is _perfect_.

“I—oh, can we just… _Bed_…” Taron barely manages to get out, while Jamie smiles and runs a cruel thumb across the tip of his cock, slightly pressing into the slit, collecting the embarrassing amount of moisture already there and making Taron roll his head back, buck his hips, and arch his spine into Jamie’s touch, looking for every bit of physical contact he can get.

“Not sure I know what you mean by that,” Jamie reiterates, merciless, pumping on Taron’s cock more and more slowly. “What is it that you’d like me to do, Taron? I want to hear you say it.” His hand stops moving altogether, then, and he just stares at Taron, whose head is still rolled back against the wall. His eyes shoot open, then, and what remains of the green, now almost completely pooled with black, comes to pierce Jamie’s stare.

“Fuck me, Jamie,” Taron offers, in a single, hot breath. He must notice Jamie’s inquiring look, then, because he echoes, “_Please_, fuck me. Please.”

“Yes, Taron, _yes_,” Jamie obliges, kissing him fiercely, for good measure, as his hand emerges from Taron’s bottoms and goes to pull on the hem of his T-shirt, and then it’s _him_ walking backwards, him guiding them both towards the bedroom, him being in control, and watching Taron fall completely under his spell. When his shins hit the bed, and Taron lets out a loud, satisfied groan—that’s when Jamie knows he’s made it. He pulls at Taron’s shirt to get it over his head, and Taron wiggles out of it effortlessly, and suddenly there’s the incredible feeling that is wrapping his hands around Taron’s naked middle, bringing his lips to his chest, nuzzling into the soft hair there, biting on his nipples, and feeling the rise and fall of his panting breaths.

The moment when Taron loses it, it seems, is when Jamie sits down on the bed, and his hands travel down as he does so, and he cups the man’s impossibly perfect round buttocks through the soft cotton of his trackies, all the while kissing down his chest and coming to nuzzle the trail of hair going down from his belly button down to his crotch. Jamie feels Taron’s hands on the back of his head, pressing him close, and he finds it appropriate to lick from his lower abdomen back up towards his navel—and Taron is groaning and whispering Jamie’s name, and Jamie is surprised at how well he’s doing at keeping the situation in his grasp when he, like Taron, is well on the way to completely losing his wits.

Jamie’s eyes come up to stare at Taron’s face, then, and the look the man is giving him is so incredibly erotic and beautiful, and he immediately wants to burn it right into his brain.

“Need you… naked… please, love… Wanna _see_ you,” Taron demands, as Jamie is finally frees him of his bottoms, and _he_ is now stripped bare for Jamie’s eyes only, and he’s so _gorgeous, T, you’re so fucking gorgeous_—and he’s also _right_, so right, in fact, to say Jamie needs to be way more naked, because blood is pooling all around his lower body, and his clothes are officially suffocating him. He wriggles out of his jacket and sends it flying somewhere across the bedroom. Then it’s his shirt that goes, and he would normally be done, at this point, but he’s still wearing a vest underneath, tucked into his jeans, which makes him wonder why the _fuck_ he’s thought it a good idea to wear so many layers when it’s not even that cold outside—but then Taron seems to have found his words again, and Jamie has his answer.

“Fuck, J, you’re too much. You should _always_ be wearing vests,” he declares. “Paul fucking Newman has _nothing_ on you.”

It’s all Jamie can do but grunt and frantically fumble with the buckle of his belt as his cock twitches painfully—and he stands up again, and Taron’s grabbing his face and kissing him ferociously, and then Taron is working on Jamie’s jeans, peeling them off as quick as he can. As he does so, he sinks down to his knees, and Jamie feels and sees him close his lips around his boxer-clad shaft, and kiss and groan against it, teasing, pitiless—and Jamie simply cannot help but buck his hips into Taron’s face, looking for more. Taron chuckles against him, and his laugh reverberates through every fibre of Jamie’s muscles, and it’s all Jamie can do not to come on the spot.

“I know this,” Taron begins, eager, eyeing Jamie’s cock and licking the length of it through the fabric of his boxers, right as his hands come to hook on the waistband, tugging lightly, “has been inside me already. But, fuck, Jamie—I’ll _never_ get over how big it is.”

Jamie feels himself _blush_, for some reason, but the praise definitely does it for him. He finds he’s now biting down on his lower lip and caressing Taron’s head in anticipation, and he really wants to talk dirty back, but words fail him—all he can think of, right now, is how much he would like to be _inside him_ once again, pounding relentlessly and making him scream. However, after a few, interminable seconds—during which Taron insists on lowering Jamie’s boxers way too painfully slowly for his taste—Jamie forces himself to regain his composure, and lifts Taron’s chin with his index and middle finger, tilting his head up, looking for eye contact.

“Oh?” he asks, faking surprise. “Enough for you, is it?”

Taron doesn’t reply, evidently preferring to let his actions speak in his place, since he’s _finally_ yanking Jamie’s boxers all the way down, and by the time he’s nodding in assent Jamie’s cock is already halfway inside his mouth, and Jamie thanks his lucky stars for soberness and a clear head, right now, because every sensation is heightened, and Taron’s mouth is so warm and welcoming—and he’s groaning, then, at a loss for words, and he’s tentatively pushing himself deeper and deeper, and Taron is taking him oh so _beautifully_, hands firmly grabbing his hips, humming and moaning around him.

“Fuck, T, look at you,” Jamie manages, in-between elated groans, caressing Taron’s hair “Perfect, love…”

At that, Taron closes his eyes and takes him in completely, letting the full length slide right down to his throat, and Jamie is officially signing his soul off to this man and his oh-so-talented mouth—because now he’s actually bobbing his head and _sucking_—and, fuck, it’s truly too much to take in. Jamie wasn’t prepared for _this_, today. Far be it from him to say he wasn’t _hoping_ it might happen, but now he’s genuinely scared that, if Taron keeps this up for even just thirty seconds more, he will make a right mess of himself. He resolves to do the difficult thing, then, and deny himself for a little while longer. He brings his thumb on Taron’s cheekbone, stroking him lightly there, admiring how much more prominent it looks now his cheeks are hollowed out and hard at work, and waits for him to look up. When he does—eyes already watery, lips red and wet, beads of sweat pooling on his brow, in short, a picture of _sin_ incarnated—Jamie is hit by a wave of pleasure once again, and speaking out is even harder than he’d imagined.

“Love, not gonna last…”

Thankfully, Taron decides to have mercy on him. He quickly inches backwards, replaces his mouth on Jamie’s cock with his hand, and grins up at him.

“Can’t have that, can we? Need you inside me, remember?” The smile gets cheekier, but his lust-glazed eyes are telling a different story.

“Oh, don’t worry, T. Definitely haven’t forgotten about that. Get on this bed, _now_,” Jamie hears himself growl, impossibly low, and Taron hums and nods eagerly, _yes, Jamie, yes_. As he kicks his jeans away from his feet, Jamie observes as Taron stands up and then immediately falls back on the bed, on his back, perching himself up on his elbows—and, again, he’s a sight for sore eyes, but Jamie can’t linger. He has other plans, at the moment, and they involve making good on the promise he made Taron only a few minutes ago.

“Want you on your front, love. Still need to _eat_, don’t I?” he says, spreading his legs to trap Taron’s between them, and coming to rest one knee on the mattress. Taron’s eyes widen in what looks like a mixture of shock and a sudden wave of lust, which is followed by him contracting his triceps to push himself into a sitting position, and Jamie sees that as his cue to fully kneel on the bed, cup his hands around Taron’s jaw, and plant one more fiery kiss on his eager mouth. He whispers against those same lips, then, because Taron is right—he most definitely can’t stop _talking_ today. “Let me taste you, pet?”

“Hmm-hmm,” Taron purrs, nuzzling Jamie’s cheek, and then leaning back down, grabbing one of the multiple cushions that are lying against the headboard of his giant bed, turning over on the bed and putting the cushion beneath his crotch—_genius idea_.

And then, like that, Taron’s arse is suddenly there. And it’s propped up. And it’s so clearly and plainly _exposed _to Jamie—and it’s in _high definition_, now, unlike it was during their Hendrick’s-fuelled spell a couple of nights ago, and it’s round and full and _big_—and it’s _absolutely_ _flawless_. Jamie leans down to caress and kiss both cheeks, lightly at first, then allowing his mouth to open and his tongue to slip out, licking on the soft, hairless skin there, and then _teeth _are happening, and Taron is whimpering and writhing against his touch, and Jamie is enjoying the _power_ he has over the man way more than he’d ever admit to anyone.

“Keen, aren’t you, T?” Jamie murmurs, mid-bite, just as his hands are coming down to spread Taron’s cheeks and expose his most secret and sensitive spot—and, _fuck_, Taron shaves down there, too, doesn’t he?

“On oral from Jamie fucking Bell? Ya bet your arse I—_oh_, love, yes…” Taron’s retort is cut short, because Jamie’s tongue is licking a long strip from the base of his balls, to his hole, and all the way up to his crack.

“This is very much all about _your_ arse, though, innit, sunshine?” Jamie replies, before getting to work on properly slicking Taron up and hopefully making him lose it in the process—all thanks to the tongue that, it prides him to say, has made many a woman scream out his name in ecstasy. He might well have admitted this particular detail in an interview with bloody British GQ, a few years back, now that he thinks about it. The bit about him being partial to giving oral to _men_, however, he unfortunately never did manage to get to, because his publicist had been eyeing him like she wanted to pour lighter fuel on him and set him on fire. Doesn’t really matter whether the whole world knows or not, though. He is perfectly aware of how good he is at this. And he’s fully determined to make Taron—who is providing him with such a perfect canvas to paint his masterpiece on—realise just _how_ good.

He starts licking at Taron’s hole with purpose, then, and Taron buries his head in his pillow and drowns in the rest of the cushions around him—and it’s such a shame, really, because the noises he’s making are as beautiful as any high note he hits when singing Elton’s songs, and it’s just the two of them, right now, and the walls are thick and safe, and Jamie wants to enjoy it all.

“Mmmh, sweetheart…” he hums, right after planting the umpteenth tongue-charged kiss on Taron’s already sensitive hole. “Let me _hear_ you properly, eh?”

“Oh, _fuck_, yes,” Taron moans, and proceeds to frantically wave his arms right and left, sending cushions and pillows flying off the bed. He then rests his hands beneath his forehead, bracing himself for what’s to come.

“Such a good boy, Taron,” Jamie says, breath ghosting Taron’s right cheek, and Taron just groans, finally loud, and pushes his hips back, looking for _more_. And Jamie simply cannot wait to oblige him.

He spreads Taron’s cheeks open again, and he starts lapping in earnest, humming against him, words flowing off his mouth, an endless river of praise making the sensitive skin vibrate under his touch, and Taron is _so loud_ and incoherent—and he’s pushing harder and harder against Jamie’s mouth. The man’s eagerness suddenly makes a drunken memory resurface, one that he is one hundred percent sure is accurate, and not at all a product of his confused mind. And he really wants to try that _thing _out again. He brings a firm hand down on Taron’s right cheek—a light slap, one that he’s positive hasn’t hurt in the slightest. At that, Taron moans more loudly still, and his head shoots up and turns around, suddenly desperate for eye contact.

“Do that again,” he commands. Jamie raises an eyebrow at him, smirking.

“Mmmh, what do we say, pet?”

Taron groans in lust and frustration. “_Please_, Jamie. Please, spank me again.”

Jamie’s hand is quick to please, and it’s harder this time—it leaves a red mark on Taron’s arse, and it _stings_. But, fuck, Jamie is _loving_ it, and Taron sounds like he is too, very much, in fact. So Jamie delivers a third, then a fourth slap, and each blow seems to send a powerful rush of blood from his hand right to his cock—and it’s a lot, and he knows he has to pace himself, otherwise he’ll just get overwhelmed, which is really not the point, on this late September morning. Which is why he decides it’s about damn time to get back to the oral action. He does, then, this time making a point of trying to open Taron up good and proper. This involves pressing his tongue _inside_ him, and teasing his entrance with a tentative finger, while he’s at it. He delivers playful but firm slaps at regular intervals, and Taron’s arse is quickly red hot under Jamie’s hand, and Taron whines so _prettily_, but never asks Jamie to stop. So he does not, and he is rewarded with a string of cries and grunts and even some intelligible words, in the midst—the words being mostly _fuck_, _more_, and _please_.

As soon as the one finger has turned to two, and the whimpers at the spanking have become impossibly loud, and the words _fuck me, Jamie_ have been uttered once again, Jamie knows he’s finally ready to have mercy on the man. And on himself, actually, because he is now officially too achingly hard to keep up this level of altruism. He is well-trained, yes—but he’s still human, after all.

Fingers still opening Taron up, Jamie plants a delicate kiss on the inflamed skin of Taron’s left cheek, and he hears Taron _hiss_ in response. “Taron?” he asks, gently.

“Mmgh?” comes in Taron, evidently unable to articulate.

“Lube?”

“N—nightstand,” Taron stutters, gesturing to his right with an arm—and Jamie is frankly surprised at the successful effort. Thankfully, they’re high up enough on the bed for Jamie to be able to reach the drawer without having to remove his fingers from inside Taron—making a point of curling them slightly, in fact, which gets another string of precious guttural sounds out of him. Jamie squirts lube on Taron’s entrance, at first, and his two fingers already there are quickly joined by a third, to make sure Taron is properly open and ready. While his hand is at work, Jamie squeezes the bottle again. A trickle of cold liquid comes into contact with his cock, then, and he sighs at the sudden temperature change—it’s so painfully hot and hard, by this point, that when he closes his hand around it, it’s positively _overwhelming_ for a second, and his vision gets blurry. However, a particularly loud groan from Taron is all it takes to make him snap out of it. He leans over to kiss the nape of Taron’s neck, travelling towards his lobe, tasting salty sweat in his wake.

“Ready for me, pet?”

“Yes, J. Need you. Please.”

And Jamie is ready too. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s ever been readier for anything in his life.

Moving on to kiss between Taron’s shoulder blades, Jamie withdraws his fingers from Taron’s stretched-out entrance and feels him _shiver_ in anticipation. When he aligns the tip of his cock with it, he marvels at the hotness and the slickness and the absolute fucking _perfection_ of it all—and it’s easy, then, so stupidly easy, to just sink inside Taron, and make him his.

It’s slow, and it’s _tight_, and every sensation feels amplified. Jamie imagines this is what some hard drugs must do to people, and the precise reason why they’re so addictive. Except it’s different, here. So very different. And so much better. Exactly as expected, what is really doing it for Jamie is the soberness, this time. It’s being completely in control of his mind and body.

It’s hearing the slick noise of his lubed-up cock, stretching Taron out.

It’s seeing that _perfect_ arse slowly take in his length, inch by inch.

It’s touching the tender skin of that same arse with open hands, pressing them towards his own body to ease the penetration.

It’s smelling the unmistakeable scent of _sex_ in the air, mixed with the faint memory of shower gel and cologne. 

It’s tasting salty sweat on his tongue, leftover from kissing Taron’s neck, and wanting to taste it again.

Jamie plunges in fully and leans forward, resting his forearms on each side of Taron’s head, flexing his biceps, and pressing himself flush against Taron’s back, the skin-to-skin contact complete and electrifying. He just rests there, for a second, taking it all in, and when he feels Taron writhe beneath him—and oh, wow, he’s biting down on Jamie’s bicep, isn’t he?—well, that’s his cue to finally start moving. Taron grunts against the inked-up skin between his teeth, and Jamie purrs in his ear while he picks up a pace, slowly and purposefully rocking his hips back and forth, sliding in and out and in again, and Taron is loud and explicit once more, and it’s marvellous.

“Fuck, Jamie, you’re—_oh_, so… So big…” he groans, taking a break from leaving bite marks all over Jamie’s tattoo and bending his neck backwards so that Jamie’s cheek is against his, right before Jamie shoves himself inside him again, and it’s harder and deeper than it’s ever been. All the way inside, he tilts his head to his left, to capture Taron’s lips in a fierce kiss. The angle is slightly awkward—but it’s hot as all hell, and Taron moaning inside his mouth literally is all Jamie wants from the world right now, and then some.

“My… Fucking… God… T…” Jamie growls, in-between thrusts, contracting his glutes as much as he can to get deeper and deeper, because he’s never wanted to make someone feel good as much as he does this wonderful man beneath him. He fucks him slowly and passionately at first, weighing every forwards and backwards movement of his hips, angling himself to get it just right, purring sweet nothings and unspeakable obscenities into his ear while at it. Taron, on the other hand, seems to have forgotten how to talk. Just a tiny whimper escapes his lips, now and then, but mostly he has his neck strained and his face contracted into the absolute picture of carnal pleasure—his eyes tightly shut, his face glistening in pearls of sweat, his mouth open and caught into an “O” shape, like he’s surprised, every time Jamie presses himself into him—like he cannot believe it, like it’s _oh, so good, fuck_—and honestly Jamie can’t help but wholeheartedly agree, punctuating every thrust with a word of praise, pressing his lips and grazing his fingers over every bit of Taron he can reach. After a few, seemingly endless (heck, _if only_) minutes, Jamie feels Taron push back against him. And that’s when he knows he’s found that spot. 

“_There_, love, right th—_mmmgh_…” Taron is finally loud again, finally outspoken—and immediately and mercilessly cut off by another brush against his prostate. Jamie positively revels into the discovery he’s just made, since Taron seems to be _clenching_ around him now, and it’s even tighter, even better, and even more difficult to stay sane. He feels himself starting to drift away—like he’s _drunk _all over again, all his senses obliterated by the slow lovemaking—and he knows he can’t keep up this kind of pace if he wants to last as much as he’s planning to. He wants to be at it for hours and hours and some _more_ fucking hours, and then smoke and sleep and start all over again. He wants Taron to be so desperate for release, by the end, that he’ll _beg_ him for it.

Sliding out feels _wrong_, when there’s so much Jamie could make happen just with a few more calculated thrusts. Taron seems to agree, because he’s pressing his knees and the heels of his hands down on the mattress, and he’s trying to _follow_ Jamie in his backward motion, refusing to let go, refusing to let him get away. And it’s so tempting, then, so _fucking_ tempting—seeing him on all fours, arse pushed out for Jamie to worship with hands or mouth or tongue or cock—Jamie _almost _caves in. But, in the end, he still decides to flip Taron over.

“What in the—_fuck_, Jamie, rea—Jesus _fucking _Christ…” Jamie does not give Taron a moment to breathe. He has already settled between his spread thighs, hooked his arms around them to pull him close and hold him in place, his biceps and shoulders contracted against the man’s firm buttocks. He has also wrapped his lips around the tip of Taron’s cock, and the amount of moisture there is _insane_ and _sinful_ and _delicious_—and that sensation and that realisation are enough to make Jamie momentarily lose his wits. Taron arches his back and pulls his hair, then, and Jamie chuckles around him, and the vibration sends another wave of electricity through Taron’s body—which is oh so beautifully strained, now—and audible words and whimpers are fewer and further apart, since _bliss_ seems to have taken the wheel once again.

Jamie lets Taron take control, then. He lets his hair get pulled, his mouth be fucked, and the back of his throat be repeatedly hit—and he loves every _second_ he spends doing his very best to pleasure this incredible man he still cannot for the life of him believe he gets to share a bed with. After a few, idyllic seconds of thoroughly enjoying being thoroughly used by the object of his most wicked sexual fantasies, it’s so wonderful to _hear_ Taron again. He sounds hoarse and spent, and yet he manages to belt out a never-ending string of exclamations and filthy words, and the fact that this is just for _him_ fills Jamie with an equal amount of joy and pride—and the lion inside him roars with possessiveness and love.

Taron starts pushing himself harder and harder inside Jamie’s mouth, and his grip on Jamie’s hair is tighter and it _hurts _so good, and Taron is _so close, love, so fucking close_ (he’s using his words again, good boy), and even though the prospect of making him come down his throat is possibly the most enticing thing in the world right now, Jamie has other plans still—and he knows he has to pull away again.

Taron’s hands against the back of his head resist him just for a few seconds, and then they’re gone. What is not gone, though, are the loud groans, a mixture of pleasure and overwhelming frustration, and, as soon as Jamie is sitting on his heels and looking at Taron—sprawled out on the bed, sweaty, and _ravishing_—well, that’s exactly what he wants to do. _Ravish him_.

He tilts himself forward and crawls on all fours on top of Taron, whose eyes are open once again—and they’re scrutinising him with the air of someone who is trying to unpack the truth behind every mystery of life at once.

“You will be the literal _death _of me, James,” he declares, panting, and Jamie is so surprised that this is the level of articulate Taron is managing to be—because he himself does not feel capable of such prowess, right about now. And then, astoundingly, while looming over the gorgeous mess of a man beneath him, Jamie finds he actually is.

“What would you say to me fucking you harder than you’ve ever been fucked in your life—possibly against that stupid expensive baroque wardrobe of yours?”

Jamie hears—_sees_—Taron’s breath catch in his throat at that, and the way Taron is reaching up to graze his left cheek with the tip of his fingers is almost too fucking erotic for a second. Somehow, way more so than having the same fingers threaded through the longer strands in his hair as Jamie was going down on him, just a few minutes ago. Must be the pure _electricity_ that sparks from that touch, Jamie reckons. And Taron’s eyes, glazed with desire. And his mouth, hanging open, expectant, like time has stopped. And his body, radiating heat, inching closer and closer.

“I…” Taron starts, fingers still brushing Jamie’s cheekbones—not quite touching—and lips now millimetres from Jamie’s—not quite kissing. He’s merely resting there, and he’s letting their breaths mix, and he’s allowing Jamie to practically _hear_ his heartbeat through the _almost_ skin-to-skin contact.

Taron is just looking at Jamie—_awestruck_. Like he can’t believe what he sees. Like they’ve never even done this before. Like he’s not allowed to touch him. Like Jamie has become this forbidden fruit that Taron cannot believe he gets to lay his eyes on, let alone be allowed to taste. And Jamie just wants to burn this picture into his memory for the rest of time, because he has never felt so completely and utterly _wanted_ in his life. And, boy, how sweet that is.

There’s tenderness, for one second longer. Jamie looks into Taron’s darkened green eyes, sees the whole universe in them, and feels his heartbeat quicken. Then Taron finally closes the distance between them, and they’re kissing, and there’s a beast stirring inside Jamie, biting and roaring and ripping through all the layers of self-composure and restraint. And then they part, and Taron is talking again, he’s finally found his words, and Jamie has never been happier to hear the simple three-letter word uttered by anybody, ever.

“_Yes_. I’d say yes.” And with that, he delivers himself to Jamie.

Jamie grins and growls as he kisses Taron again, hungrily, all tongue and teeth and jaw-grabbing and _yearning_ for his touch, after that brief spell of incredulous bashfulness the man seems to have gone through. He flips them over so now he’s beneath Taron, and Taron is straddling him, and it’s easy, so _easy_—everything is always so fucking easy with him, isn’t it?—to slide back inside the wet warmth of him. But this time Taron is sitting on top of Jamie, and he’s already open and ready, and Jamie gets so _deep_, so _quickly_—and, oh God, _please_ he needs _more_, and he needs it _right now_, and he can’t even believe his own strength as he thrusts up to meet Taron’s up-and-down movements and simultaneously manages to push on his legs far enough along the bed to let them hang on the side of it. Suddenly, finally, his heels are on the floor, and he has a surface to push his feet against, and again, he gets to go a little deeper, and at every brush of the tip of his cock against Taron’s prostate—well, let’s just say that if they haven’t managed to convince a neighbour call the bobbies to report a noise complaint up until now, this is definitely the time they will.

“Oh, _God_, Jamie, how—ughhh, how are you even… real?” Taron is saying, loud as ever, against Jamie’s shoulder—caught in-between sighs and sobs, desperately trying to press himself down onto Jamie to feel him deeper still. And then it happens. Jamie presses his heels to the side of the bed and pushes his glutes forwards, as he wraps his arms around Taron. It takes contracting every single muscle in his body, but he knows he can do it—he has been working so hard for so long, and he wants it very _fucking_ bad. So he gets up, and he lifts Taron with him, and he feels his lust-clouded mind whirring and steaming and scribbling away to permanently imprint this umpteenth _incredible_ moment into his memory.

It feels almost too good to be true. Taron is all around Jamie, now; his hands are scratching Jamie’s shoulder blades; his chest is pressed flush against Jamie’s; his legs are wrapped around Jamie’s middle, clutching to keep him close and _deep_, so deep—and Jamie is just losing his fucking mind. He takes a step, then, and the long stride he manages gets them to the wardrobe immediately. Taron’s back crashes against the solid wood a little harder than Jamie wanted it to, and he’s about to apologise—but no, he’s actually just managed to get deeper still with that involuntarily hard thrust of his hips, and Taron’s groan is most definitely not one of pain.

“Mmmngh,” he moans, incoherently, his head hitting the wardrobe door as he tilts it back. “So… strong… J… _fuck_…” is something else that comes out of Taron’s kiss-swollen lips, and Jamie feels his cock hardening a tad more still, and he knows it’s time to start moving again, to work Taron up, to make him see stars—but it does feel nice to just stand still, for a second, taking it all in, feeling Taron clench every muscle around him, revelling in the warmth.

And then Jamie thrusts himself forward one, two, three, five times, and it’s hard, and it’s rough, and Taron is _screaming_ and holding on for dear life—one hand on Jamie’s shoulder, the other one hopelessly trying to pull the hair on the back of Jamie’s head that is just too short to grab a hold of, which results in Taron clawing at his skull and just intensifying every other sensation. Taron’s head is thrown back, and his mouth is open, and his neck is accessible once again, and naturally Jamie’s lips and tongue and teeth are suddenly on it, kissing and licking and biting the sweaty, sweet-smelling skin there. The response from Taron is _gorgeous_—the pitch of his moans getting higher and higher and higher still, a constantly raising scale of musical notes perfectly mimicking the climb on the ladder of pleasure both of their bodies are experiencing—and Jamie is determined to chase the next semitone at every thrust of his hips, every squeeze of his hands on Taron’s smooth, _perfect _thighs, every glimpse of eye contact Taron manages to bless him with. Adrenaline and endorphins are flooding every inch of Jamie, and _fatigue_ is not a concept that exists, right now. He feels the power, the want, the love radiating from Taron’s body, and he is absolutely positive he _can_ do this. He _can_ make Taron come in his arms. Possibly untouched.

Just as Jamie is realising this, he feels the muscles around his cock clench mightily, and he hears a desperate groan escape Taron’s mouth, and he sees Taron bite down hard on his own lips, before he actually musters the strength to bring his head forward again and _look_ at Jamie. And oh, _God_, that is really all it takes to drag Jamie over the edge. He can feel it, then—the run is finally over, and he is hitting the finish line, triumphant on a cloudless day, and the sun shining brightly, and _Taron_ is the sun, and he glows white and gold, and Jamie is blinded by the light. Lips are crashing, and there’s frantic breathing into each other’s mouths, and there’s hot and wet liquid shooting between their bodies, and there’s the almost impossible feeling of _release_, and Jamie is still thrusting, filling Taron up, leaving his mark, never wanting this to end.

As he’s coming down from the high, Jamie finds himself thinking that making love to this man is really all he should be doing at any given moment—which is precisely why even just taking a small break from it is quite frankly _infuriating_. The adrenaline rush is fading, though, and his legs are starting to boycott him, so he surrenders to painfully sliding out of Taron and easing him down. Jamie still categorically refuses to stop kissing him, though, because he feels like dragging this magical moment out as much as he can. When Taron’s feet are finally on the floor, Jamie is only half surprised to notice the man seems not to be able to find his balance for a split-second, and he tries to hold him up—but, oh, right, he’s just been playing the strong man stunt and his body is saying a loud _no thank you_ to any other type of physical effort. What happens is an awkward walking backwards towards the bed and not-so-gracefully stumbling upon it, which results in both men laughing at their sudden lack of coordination. For a second, in fact, Jamie bizarrely feels transported all the way back to the bathroom scene from _Billy Elliot_—but he kicks the ludicrous thought out of his mind as quickly as it has come, because the sight of a very blissfully shagged-out Taron before his eyes is now quite literally threatening to take his breath away.

“Incredible. You are incredible, love,” Jamie murmurs, elated, before kissing Taron for the millionth time and smiling against his lips, because wrapping his mind around the fact that he just got to experience all this, that Taron just let him in so deeply and completely and lovingly, simply feels like a dream.

“No, _you_ are. You are _extraordinary_, Jamie. Super-fucking-human, in fact,” Taron declares, matter-of-factly, mindlessly tracing the curve of Jamie’s shoulders and pecs with the tips of his fingers. Jamie feels hot blood rush to his head, then, and he coyly shakes his head. “I honestly have no clue how you were able to lift all of _this_ up,” Taron finishes, all the while gesturing up and down his body.

“Oh, sod off, T. You’re perfect, and you know it.”

“I most definitely am not.”

“Well, you are to me.”

There’s silence after that, and there’s them both lying there, and there’s limbs entangled, and they’re giggling like giddy schoolboys, and they’re kissing and kissing and _kissing_—until their heartbeats are one and the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Jamie sex happened. Dunno about you, but it’s my absolute weakness. 
> 
> Titles are by Alex, as fucking usual. This [album](https://open.spotify.com/album/7v6FNgLDS8KmaWA1amUtqe) changed my whole life. 
> 
> Quick word about that whole Cillian parenthesis: I’m not sorry at all. Not in the slightest. Also, I low-key _love_ the haircut, and I think it would suit our James a whole lot. 
> 
> Moreover, in case you somehow hadn’t noticed—yes, I _am_ a nerd for the London public transportation system. Sue me. *peace sign* 
> 
> The Brexit article, for shits and giggles—because I simply could not resist having Jamie rant about politics after his incredible spell on [Colbert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUxQhx8vSM4), a couple months back. Have I mentioned how much love I have for this man, yet? ‘Cos I don’t think it’s quantifiable, by this point, really. 
> 
> This is the [shower gel](https://www.rituals.com/en-us/the-ritual-of-hammam-foaming-shower-gel-5455.html?source=collection&showbacklink=false), by the way. My fucking favourite. If you ever get to a Rituals store, do yourself a favour and smell anything from this collection. You’ll fall in love—and you’ll maybe think of Jamie. 
> 
> Last, but definitely _not_ least, here goes the actual, honest-to-God [interview](https://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/article/gq-film-jamie-bell-tintin-interview) our boy James gave to British GQ back in 2012, where he let the world know that, yes, he is good at giving head. What can I say. I believe him. 
> 
> Alright. Well, this was something that happened. I really hope I managed to open at least one person’s eyes on how much of a wet dream this man is. 
> 
> Now, to change register completely—stay tuned till next week for some fluffy Madderton. We always need fluffy Madderton, don’t we? 
> 
> Love you all. 
> 
> C xx


	6. 6. Taron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theatre, Italian fine dining, climbing fences, confessions, lots of texting, tea, and The Beatles.
> 
> Aka, thirteen-odd hours packed with a lot of different emotions.
> 
> And all of them are good. Because Taron doesn’t deserve anything less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday, everyone!
> 
> Would you believe me if I told you this is the chapter that almost never was? Considering it turned out to be around 8k words long, I don’t think I fully do, either.  
But anyways. Here’s to the great ones:
> 
> [ supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof) and [ Egertonsend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egertonsend), thank you for believing in me. I’m not kidding when I say I thought I was not going to make this deadline (self-imposed, sure, but a deadline nonetheless), and I could not have done it without your support. I love you a whole lot.
> 
> [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=), thank you for a great beta, as usual—your suggestions were especially precious on this, and I’m very, very grateful for all the work you continue to do on this story. It would definitely not be the same without you.
> 
> That being said, here we go. Back to Golden Boy. He’s being spoilt, and he’s feeling a lot of feelings. And he’s in the mood for being outspoken about them.
> 
> In a nutshell, this chapter is a love letter to Taron, Richard, Jamie, the best cuisine in the world, London, and the North of England—in the form of the best musicians of all time, writing words and singing songs that speak directly to our favourite Welshman’s heart. And, yeah, alright—to _mine_, too. 
> 
> I love this one a lot. Not quite as much as I love Taron, mind. But _a lot_, nonetheless. I hope you will as well.
> 
> Here we go.

** _Part I – It’s all about you_ **

_“As well as having Jamie in the film, who I think—we could not have found anyone better for Bernie. I’ve had a wonderful experience making Rocketman because I’ve developed a really, really wonderful friendship with Richard Madden. Contrary to the roles we play, we’ve sort of, kind of, fallen in love a little bit.” _– Taron

_Early October_

“Fuck, I cannot _believe_ we’re here,” Taron thinks out loud as the attendant opens the heavy burgundy curtain to let them into their private box. He’s at the theatre and sat in a fucking _private box_. Gosh, the man really shouldn’t have. “You really shouldn’t have, Rich, y’know. I’d a’been ‘appy to see this even if the seat had restricted view and I had to stand up and strain my neck to see what’s happening.”

“Nonsense,” Richard dismisses him. “It’s _Les Mis_, T. And it’s, well—our first date, isnae it?” he adds. Taron looks at him and he sees bashful Richard make a prompt appearance, and _God_, the amount of love he has for this stupid Scottish bundle of sex appeal and coyness is truly beyond words, by this point.

“You’re too good to me, Madden. Truly. And you should be careful, by the way. I could get used to this,” Taron says, sitting down on the unbelievably comfortable theatre seat—and, wow, is there even another way to fully enjoy a West End musical, anymore?

“Not gonna lie, T—that’s been the plan all along,” Richard replies, smirking, as he sits down next to him and hands him the programme he’s just bought.

Taron can’t help but notice that their box has one of those two-people seats that are rarely used in theatres anymore. He’s just glanced around him and noticed that the other boxes have regular, single seats, with armrests, like at the cinema. And then theirs has _this_ thing. This thing that could mean potentially getting to cuddle and kiss (and cry on Richard’s shoulder during the very emotional bits) at any given moment of the show when he’s not belting out the tunes (yes, how _very_ against theatre etiquette of him, he’s aware) or cheering or clapping. And everything seems way too perfect to be true, for a second. Taron briefly wonders whether Richard called in advance to make sure this particular seat was set up for them. Which would make sense, seeing they also seem to be completely _alone_ in the box. God, the amount of money this man must have spent.

“What, turning me into a spoilt brat? You’re definitely on the right track for that, love.”

And then margaritas appear out of nowhere. And sandwiches. And more salty and sweet nibbles. And a bottle of Prosecco, with two glasses. And—“Oh, right, I get it now. Admit it. You’re just trying to get me drunk to get into my pants,” Taron says, moving closer to Richard in their seat and bringing a hand on the man’s cheek, caressing the stubble with his fingertips.

Richard closes the distance between their lips and smiles into the kiss. “You seem tae forget I already _got_ into your pants, T. Multiple times, in fact,” he says, his right hand coming down to stroke Taron’s thigh. “Heck, haven’t I done that just _today_, actually?”

“Smug bastard.”

“I will never _not_ be smug about getting to fuck Taron Egerton.”

Richard just _says_ these things, and he leaves Taron positively disarmed. Taron’s mind goes blank for a split-second, as he’s remembering the instance from this morning that Richard just brought up—the setting being Richard’s luxurious shower that smelled like all those ridiculously expensive grooming products he keeps in it, the feeling of him still absolutely fresh on Taron’s body (yeah, it was a _long_ shower)—and he bites down on his lip, looking at Richard, whose mischievous grin has now turned towards the stage, deliberately ignoring Taron’s piercing gaze. And then, just as Taron is about to retort something cheeky, something witty, something—_anything _to have the last word in their never-ending exchange of lustful banter—the lights are going out, and everyone is silent, and horns and violins are in full blast, and Taron’s canonically poor attention span screams that it’s finally Valjean’s time to shine, and he’s so _fucking excited_ just to hear the stupid number intoned from Javert’s lips, and the margarita tastes so _good_, and Bond-in-the-making is so _gorgeous_, sitting next to him—and, God, Richard really has nailed the choice of activity for their first date, hasn’t he?

“Thank you, Rich. This is _perfect_,” Taron murmurs in Richard’s ear, just as Fantine is desperately trying to sell her hair on the docks. “_You_ are perfect.”

The interval comes, and the stage revolves on itself, and the barricade is built so swiftly and masterfully, that Taron is left to wonder how much fucking work it must be to put on a production—he low-key wants to send flowers to each and every member of cast and crew. There’s just one teeny thing standing out, right now—and it’s not that it’s bugging him, not really, but…

“Hugh’s a way better Valjean,” Richard says, reading his mind. At that, Taron turns his head—very slowly—to face Richard.

“How…?” he asks, incredulous.

“It’s written all over your face, T,” Richard replies, knowingly, lifting the platter of nibbles up and eyeing it, as if to ask Taron to take his pick. Taron grins and shakes his head, then proceeds to choose a devilled quail egg from the selection in front of him. He brings it to his mouth and quickly chews and swallows. _Delicious_.

“It’s true, though, innit? Here,” he says, wiping his hands off on the—good grief—_linen_ napkin that rests on the table next to his glass. “Let’s take a selfie for Hugh!” He then fills his and Richard’s glasses up with some more amazing Prosecco, whips his phone out of his pocket, and looks at Richard, expectantly.

They take the selfie—their faces together, Richard smiling at the camera and looking effortlessly handsome (as per), while Taron pulls a goofy face—and then Taron turns and kisses Richard’s cheek, and he snaps another sneaky shot. And then Richard’s lips are suddenly on his, and he presses the button again, just in time to capture the moment, and he’s smiling in the kiss, and Richard is pecking at Taron’s lower lip and wrapping his arms around him—and the phone is all but discarded on the seat, then, and an intense snogging session ends up occupying the whole of the fifteen-minute interval.

The show is _amazing_, and Taron is bawling his eyes out throughout the entirety of the second act. By the time the end of the epilogue song comes up, Taron has finally managed to drag Richard to his feet to join him in almost _shouting_ about chains being broken and all men having their reward, and _will you be strong and stand with me?_ sounds marvellously fitting, because Richard is indeed being his absolute rock throughout this whole exhausting emotional journey inside Elton’s life they’re both going through.

Taron is not sure whether he should blame it on the adrenaline and the epic music and the alcohol, but he really wants to say it, right now, say it all—let Richard know how much he _loves_ him. Because, _God_, he really, truly loves him a lot. But, hey, he really should not get ahead of himself, should he? He has a setting in mind, for this. He really should wait. So he resolves to kiss him passionately while the cast sing _tomorrow comes!_ for the very last time, and then he’s crying again (of _course_ he is), and they’re applauding and whooping, and Taron is really, really hoping that the West End will never know a day where _Les Misérables_ is not playing, because he needs his children and great-great-grandchildren to see it and love it as much as him and Richard are, right now.

Dinner could almost be considered superfluous, after the abundance of munchies the Queen’s Theatre has provided them with—except Richard has made _reservations_, see, and it’s _exclusive_, and it’s _Italian_, and the day when Taron says no to good food has most definitely not come—and will it ever, really? So, yeah, _definitely_ bring dinner on.

The restaurant, _Bocca di Lupo_ (Taron is told that means _mouth of the wolf_, and for some reason he's _living_ for it—what with dining with the Young Wolf himself, an’ all that) is literally two minutes away on foot. As soon as they get in, it’s all smooth like the autumn London breeze that’s been blowing incessantly for an entire bloody week. The maître d' kisses Richard’s cheeks, the waiters and waitresses are all big smiles and _buonasera, signor Madden_, their table is impeccable, multiple candles are lit, and Taron is positively awestruck in the face of it all. He only knows this place by name, and he’s painfully aware it is high-class as ever-living _fuck_—although the impossible warmth radiating from the Italians (and possibly the fact that Richard is, quite plainly, a very loyal customer) would never in a million years give it away. Taron half-suspects this address has Jeremy Langmead’s name written all over it—and, against his better instincts, he finds himself silently thanking his lucky stars for Richard’s gilded connections. Also, wait—is that Phoebe Waller-Bridge in the picture hanging on the wall next to them? _Wow_. 

As soon as they are sat down and Taron is looking avidly at the _fritti romani_ proposals, he can’t help but feel a blue stare piercing him from the other side of the table. Taron raises his eyes from the menu, and he’s right, of course—there Frank Sinatra is, looking at him like he is made of literal gold and diamonds.

“What?”

“Nothing. You look happy, s’all,” Richard says, bluntly. He only looks half-smug, too. The other half of him is made up of a cocktail of romance and genuine _delight_, and Taron feels it again, then—the sudden urge to blurt everything out. And right now, in the romantic atmosphere of the restaurant, over the fantastic 2009 Amarone and the focaccia and Tuscan olive oil, he reckons they might well be one step closer to perfection than they were just twenty minutes ago, during that spell they shared in the Queen’s Theatre box. But, again, the moment is still not quite perfect enough. He keeps having to remind himself he has something planned, and he’ll be damned if he ruins it. _Later_, then. _Patience, Taron._

“I really, _really_ am. Thank you, Dickie. This,” he raises his index finger and makes circular motions with his hand, indicating the space around them, “is way too much.”

“Again, Duckie—least I could do,” Richard says, closing his menu and raising his glass. A big smile illuminates his whole face as he toasts them. “To us.”

Taron goes through a momentous rollercoaster of emotions—there’s a sudden lump in his throat made of giddy happiness, magnetic attraction to the man in front of him, and those _words_ that are stuck in there, begging to get out. _I love you, Richard_, is what he wants to say. “To us,” is what actually gets out of his mouth.

The impossibly thin crystal glasses tinkle against each other, and the red is _exquisite_—and it’s all good, all grand, all _marvelous_. It’s all about Richard. And Richard is _flawless_. And Taron still cannot quite believe he is sitting across from him in one of London’s most fashionable romantic dining locations, nevermind being on an actual bloody _date_. A toast is all it takes for each and every disastrous rendezvous Taron’s ever been on to be positively obliterated from his memory. In fact, every other person in the _world_ is nonexistent to Taron, right now. Well, maybe that one’s not quite accurate, when he thinks about it—_Jamie_ is still very much on his mind at all times. Taron knows he needs to tell Richard about him, and that scares the living shit out of him, if he’s completely honest. But that, too, will need to happen tonight. Richard simply _has_ to know.

The emotions start to wash away when by the waiter comes to take their orders, and are subsequently drowned by the sea of _supplì_ and fried buffalo mozzarella bites and _baccalà_ and meat-stuffed olives (also fried, of course)—and Taron’s heart gladly lets his stomach take over for the pleasant couple of hours that follow.

There’s food, and food, and then some more amazing food (Taron will never get over how many courses the Italians are able to fit into one single meal)—and Taron still manages to get tipsy on the fine wine, and Richard doesn’t stop beaming at him for even half a second, and it’s _incredible_, and it’s all… free?

“It’s all taken care of, Mr. Madden,” Taron overhears the maître d' not-so-discreetly utter in Richard’s direction, as they’re standing by the counter, waiting for the bill and enjoying the complimentary limoncello—which Taron has actually swapped for a liquorice spirit, since he absolutely _abhors_ the lemony stuff. Still clutching his wallet (yes, he _was_ going to try and get the bill, so what?), Taron turns his head from his empty shot glass to pay proper attention to the exchange happening on his left. The maître d' is still talking to Richard, but this time it _is _subtle, and Taron can’t hear what he says, but he does notice that the man is handing Richard an envelope. For a second, Taron thinks he can distinguish a monogram, the letters J and S intertwined in a flourish of calligraphy. Richard opens it, then, and chuckles to himself while he reads from an immaculate and crisp piece of heavy-duty stationery. When Richard finally decides to meet Taron’s eyes, he’s blushing furiously. As Taron touches Richard’s forearm on the counter, he feels one corner of his mouth curl up into a smirk.

“Do we have a _patron_, then, Dickie?” he asks, shamelessly direct.

“Will explain later, T,” Richard dismisses him, fingers coming to brush against his beneath the counter—which stops Taron’s retort before it escapes his mouth. Richard then turns to face the maître d’. “_Buonanotte_, Davide, thank you so much, _grazie mille, alla prossima_!” For some unexplainable reason, the Italian seems to be rolling off his tongue as naturally as the Highlands brogue usually does, and Taron is suddenly very weak for it.

“_Alla prossima, signor Madden_! Always a pleasure,” Davide replies, shaking Richard’s hand, then Taron’s. “I’m a big fan,” he declares—fully surprising Taron, who suddenly realises he’s just spent two whole hours thinking the man was completely oblivious of the fact that he, like Richard, has lent himself to the thespian craft. He musters a weak _grazie_ and something about being back to visit the fantastic _Bocca di Lupo_ again as soon as he can manage, and then they’re out in busy Soho on a Saturday night, and it’s finally Taron’s moment to take the wheel and stir the evening where he wants it to go. But, first... The free dinner. The bloody card. Taron needs an explanation.

“And what exactly, pray tell, is the reason behind _Jeremy and Simon_ paying for the absolutely lavish dinner we just enjoyed?”

Taron asks this as Richard’s in the process of raising his elbow to give him his arm. He just stops in mid-air, then, and turns to look at Taron, incredulous.

“Oh, fuck, _hoo_ in the world…?” he asks. Taron chuckles, and takes Richard’s arm anyway—for good measure.

“Are you kidding, Richard? Pretty sure I saw a picture of ‘em behind the counter. Nevermind the bloody _envelope_? ‘Course I bloody knew!" he says, laughing. "What’s this all about, huh?”

Richard smiles, shakes his head, and whispers, mindlessly—half to himself. “Bastard will be chuffed to know he’s won the bet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Christ, did I say that out loud?”

“Yes, Richard, I believe you bloody did.” Taron has presently decided he is _thoroughly _enjoying this.

Richard rolls his eyes at his own evident lack of brain-to-mouth filter, and reluctantly hands Taron the envelope. Taron grabs it—only a _touch_ too eagerly. When he opens it (wow, the paper really _is_ as thick and expensive as it looks), Taron is surprised to see the card inside contains only five words, beautifully inscribed using what Taron can only assume is a fountain pen that must cost the equivalent of six-to-eight months of his rent in Chelsea.

_Good luck, you sly dog_.

The note is not signed, but, again, the monogram and the whole context speak absolute volumes. Taron beams down at the card, then raises his eyes to find Richard looking at him, expectant, anxious—even a tad worried, maybe.

“So you had a bet on? On, what—me? I’m going to need a little more, here, Dickie, love,” Taron teases.

“We did, yeah. We bet on whether I’d actually manage to take you out on a date.” Like that, coy-boy Richard is back in full force—lip-biting, eyebrow-raising, and all that jazz. Taron barely manages to repress a delighted squeal.

“And, what, Jeremy bet _against_ you? But then, how has he just _won_? Taron don’t understand. Taron very confused. Richard explain,” Taron rambles, his best impression of E.T. making an unexpected appearance.

“It’s actually the other way ‘round, y’know? _I_ was the one to bet against myself. I just did not believe it could be possible. So, well… he won. And he insisted on paying for dinner. I hope you don’t mind?”

Taron is startled for a moment. He actually stops walking, then, right as they’re about to pass a record store. Taron takes a quick look at the window and is only half surprised to realise that _Elton_, of all people, seems to be winking at him from the cover of his 1974 _Greatest Hits_ LP. Classic.

It’s Richard’s eyes he wants to see, though, so he disentangles his arm and turns round to face him properly. He can’t help but notice the man is doing that _lip-biting_ thing again, the one Taron’s seen him at way too many times since they’ve known each other. That is a definite tell of Richard’s, Taron has decided, and one that usually means one of two things—aroused, or anxious. And this time, Taron is sad to report, it’s definitely the latter. Which makes him think he actually might have gotten it wrong, in his musings, just a few seconds ago. This is not _coy-boy_ Richard. This is _I’m-about-to-have-a-panic-attack-please-for-the-love-of-God-say-something_ Richard.

“Love,” he starts, bringing a hand to cup Richard’s cheek and caressing a sharp cheekbone with his thumb. “Couldn’t you tell? You could have had me on day one, if you’d wanted to. Right in…”

“…Abbey _fucking_ Road,” Richard finishes for him. Taron feels the man’s features against his hand curl up into a huge grin, which makes his heart swell up quite a bit. It’s very brief, though, because Richard’s brow almost immediately furrows, doubt dawning on his face once again. “Are you serious, T?”

“Never been more serious in my life. Are you kidding? I know you never believe it when people say this to you but, Dickie, you might well be the most gorgeous man currently alive on the planet. Nevermind you sweeping me off my feet with the first look you gave me, from the mixing room,” Taron says, just as he thinks of the parallel with the scene right before their first kiss on set, and it all immediately gets a tad too close for comfort, which also makes it hard to sustain the way Richard is looking down at him—_quizzical yearning_, he’d call it, if he had to name it. Instead, Taron decides his own shoes are a very interesting thing to look at, at the moment. He doesn’t stop talking, however. “As soon as I heard Dexter say you got the part, I may or may not have yelped. People were _looking at me_,” he says, and decides it’s time to brave looking up at Richard again, and, _yes_, real-life David Budd is smiling again, thank God. “And getting to know you properly, well…” _I’ve fallen in love with you, Richard Madden_. “Richard—” he starts, and he’s going to do it, he is going to tell him everything—fuck the picnic plan and the heavy blanket and the bottle of red he’s been carrying in his backpack all night. Hyde Park’s too far on foot, anyways, and what was he even _thinking_, really believing he’d make it that long without blurting it all out in a not-so-smooth stream of consciousness?

“I love you, Taron. I love you. I’m—in love with you.”

As interruptions go, well, this most definitely must be as good as it gets. Taron looks deep inside the sparkling sapphires in front of him, and distinctly feels a surge of emotions hit him square in the face. The feeling of tears irrorating his eyes is very _real_ all of a sudden. Richard is gripping him, hands squeezing his upper arms, and Taron has never seen him so completely and utterly _bare_—and it’s the most bizarre and beautiful thing he’s ever witnessed in his life. Well, tied with… Oh, but there’s going to be time to think about the whole Jamie situation later. He really should say something, right now. And he knows exactly what he needs to get out—it’s been _torture _keeping it in all night, really—so he does.

“I love you too, Richard. It feels like I’ve known you my whole life. Like I found the part of me that was missing, all these years. I love you.”

Richard’s expression is unreadable, for half a second—the time it takes for him to move his hands from Taron’s biceps up to his neck, and grab the collar of his trench-coat, and pull him in for a desperate kiss that feels and tastes like a fulfilled promise. Taron is able to pinpoint the exact moment the stupid butterflies everyone keeps talking about decide to make their appearance in his stomach, and he feels as light as all those wings that are fluttering inside him—the impossible weight of the secret finally lifted off him, and the sweet, sweet assurance that his feelings are reciprocated. They’re standing on a pavement in a fairly crowded alley on a Saturday night—and yet it feels like the whole world has disappeared.

_Russell Sq. Garden, fifteen minutes later_

Richard’s lying on the blanket in front of Taron, and he’s gorgeous in the pale moonlight. Taron has no idea how they ended up in Russell Square, of all places. Woburn Square Garden is just around the corner and one can still smell the gigantic aura of sheer panic that David Budd was emanating on telly, only a couple of weeks ago. Then again, Hyde Park indeed sounded like a whole trek, so they decided to go with the outlaw move (which feels very _hot_, somehow) and climb the fence—the park, unfortunately, closed hours ago. Taron’s cheesy self immediately thinks that the act seems to perfectly tick the Hugh-Grant-and-Julia-Roberts-in-_Notting_-_Hill_ box, and that gets him even giddier, if at all possible.

“So, tell me, Dickie,” Taron says, finally managing to pull the cork out of the reasonably fancy bottle of Montepulciano he’s brought for the occasion. “Did you _really_ think you had no chance with me? Romantically, I mean?” he adds, feeling the need to specify the last bit, since he reckons he’s made it pretty clear that the sex, at least, he most definitely never had any problem with.

“I mean… Yeah?” Richard replies, as he takes the corkscrew from Taron and rests it on the blanket. He then mindlessly unscrews the cork and starts playing with it, as he goes on talking. “There was always a _thing_ I could see. A thing involving you and… Jamie.”

Oh? _Oh_. So Taron has been way more obvious than he’s let himself believe. Good. _Grand_. What does he even say to that?

“Just how he _looks_ at you. How you act around each other,” Richard provides, again, just as Taron realises he’s probably been silent a few seconds too long. “How obviously smitten he is, and, well, how you seem to reciprocate. I just never thought I’d have a shot at _that_. I thought—well, for a while I thought I might be just a good occasional shag, to you, really.”

Taron is startled for a second. Then he pictures himself in Richard’s shoes, seeing all that happen right before his eyes—the aftermath of Taron and Jamie’s tap-dancing outing; all the emotionally charged early-Elton-and-Bernie scenes; Jamie leaning into him on drunken nights out with the cast; Taron struggling to sit properly in his chair at lunch, once or twice. God, he’s a complete dickhead, isn’t he?

“Oh, Dickie. I’m… I don’t even know what to say,” Taron replies, hesitant, eyeing his plastic cup, now full of deep crimson liquid, almost as inscrutable as Richard’s expression is, right now. “I’m so sorry you felt like that. I had no idea, and I’m a moron. And you’re so much more than a good shag—God, Richard, seriously. _So_ much more. I’m just… _rubbish_ at this. I’ve been meaning to tell ya for weeks, but every time I tried to open my mouth to say it all, I ended up freezing on the spot.” Taron catches his breath, then, because he has become painfully aware that it’s now or never. It’s time to finally let it out. “Jamie and I…” he starts, and just pronouncing the man’s name fills him in equal parts with love and dread—the latter completely to blame on his existential crisis from a couple of weeks back, and on how he somehow convinced himself that at least one of these wonderful men he’s fallen for is for sure going to not want to see him again as soon as they hear what’s what. “_Things_ happened between us. Are still happening, in fact. Bottom line is—I think I love him too, Richard.”

Taron delivers all that while a painful knot forms in his throat. This should be liberating. This should make him feel something similar to the relief he felt just barely twenty minutes ago, in front of that record store. And yet, Richard’s expression is possibly even more unreadable than it was before, and the soul-shattering realisation that this _thing _with Jamie might well be a deal-breaker for him (no matter how much he loves Taron, really), is way too fucking real to ignore any longer.

And then Richard does something. He eyes Taron just as his lips touch the rim of his cup, and his face curls up into a big old grin. After a sip of red, the Glasgow brogue Taron has come to know and worship over the past few months makes an appearance again.

“Oh, love. Like I said, I had my suspicions,” he says, now smiling widely. Taron is about to butt in to ask for clarifications, but Richard is quicker. “Can’t say I haven’t thought about it myself, really. I mean, the man’s a bloody _vision_, isn’t he? And the idea of the two of you together, well… I believe millennials would say something along the lines of _hot damn_?”

Taron feels like he’s just stepped out of a cold shower—shock and relief inundating his blood flow—and he tries, and almost miserably fails, to properly process what Richard’s just said.

“You know _you_’re technically a millennial too, right, Madden?” is everything he can muster in return, and it’s a shite answer, really, and it’s to blame on Taron’s brain having been turned into a jumbled-up hot mess of thoughts involving, but not limited to, the whole bloody mindfuck that is Richard finding the mental image of Jamie and Taron enticing, as well as the impossibly clear picture of Richard and Jamie’s stunning naked bodies _together_, for Taron’s eyes to appreciate. His mouth waters a ridiculous amount and he has to swallow and take a sip from his cup before he can continue, while Richard chuckles at him.

“Sure don’t feel like one,” Richard replies, fingers thoughtlessly coming up to thread through the streak of silver in his hair. “But I’d still be partial to taking you on all fours while you go down on him, my love.”

“_Richard Madden_,” Taron comes back, positively scandalised—because he simply _cannot_ believe what he’s hearing. He feels himself blushing furiously before he has time to hide his face behind his own cup of wine. Immediately after, he feels his lower abdomen burn up in the exact same way, although it’s arousal, this time, not bashfulness—Richard’s suggestive imagery has gotten him into all sorts of states, really.

“Yes, darling?” Richard says, cheeky, inching closer to Taron on the blanket and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“You’re _wicked_. And I love you. So fucking much.”

Richard’s grin gets a tad wider still, and he closes the distance between them. The kiss tastes like _him_, fantastic red wine, unconditional love, and a lingering promise for more—because now Taron can almost feel the awareness of Jamie there, between them—and it’s unexpected, and it’s _wonderful_.

As far as Taron is concerned, no first date will ever top this one.

** _Part II – There are places I remember/Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?_ **

_“For the role we dyed my hair orange, thinned it out, shaved my hairline up—but it grew back.”_

_“Were you ever worried that it might not grow back?”_

_“Every _single_ day.” _– Taron, to Jimmy Kimmel, 2019

_The next day, early morning_

It’s 7 A.M. and, irritatingly, Richard is not in Taron’s bed. He snuck out to Heathrow at some ungodly hour—he has to pop to the City of Angels to pre-record some _Bodyguard_ press for the Netflix release. Taron remembers trying to protest and offering to call Jed Mercurio and the whole team and yell at them for making Richard work on a bloody _weekend_, when he’s already doing so much for _Rocketman_, but Richard had declined his kind offer—_it’s all fine, love, it’s the gig, innit?_—which is why he’s currently boarding a flight to the other end of the world, and Taron is alone in his bed. How rude of Richard to be this in demand, these days, really, when Taron wants him all to himself. He’s reminded of that _Zoolander_ line about Hansel being _so hot right now_, and he laughs to himself—that will make a great comment to one of the innumerable upcoming sexy photoshoots that the man will inevitably end up posting to the whole dark and mysterious place that is Instagram.

Taron is never usually awake this early on a Saturday, if he can help it. Especially after a night like the one he and Richard had—the theatre, the food, the alcohol, the goddamned _love declarations_ (Taron still cannot believe _that_ happened, if he’s honest), the mind-blowing sex—he’d probably sleep in until noon, at least. In normal conditions, that is. Except, again, Richard left _very_ early, and the chaste kiss he gave Taron as a goodbye woke him up right proper—he was awake enough, in fact, to actually muster the strength to pull Richard back on the bed to deepen said kiss, which in turn resulted in the man’s overnight bag hitting the floor with a thump, and them both smiling on each other’s lips.

“I love you, Golden Boy. See you Monday.”

“I love you too, Dickie. Knock ‘em dead. Go win me some awards.”

“Yeah, like that’ll ever happen.”

Since the door closed behind Richard, Taron has snoozed fitfully, but never managed to get entirely back to a deep sleep. Might be the fact that he’s very aware that, all around him, the world is unusually quiet. It’s extremely rare, even early on a Saturday morning, for busy Chelsea to be this motionless and noiseless. Deafening silence is something that Taron is not used to hearing anymore—those were the days in Aber as a boy and a young man, before he moved to the big city to go to drama school and try and make it big in the world, not quite believing he’d ever manage it (and thanks a lot to Matthew Vaughn for proving him wrong, by the way).

Taron just_ needs_ silence, sometimes. The constant buzz of the city was all fine and dandy during his wilderness years—London is just about the most fun place to be, as a careless student on the right side of one’s twenties, what with the clubs and the parties and there _always_ being something to do on a weekend. Or even a weeknight, for that matter. Not that he actually kept track of days, at the time, anyway. But now, as an almost 29-year-old man, Taron has come to the realisation that the cards on the table have indeed shifted. He has been living—_existing_—on his own in the big city for a couple of years, now, and he’s decided he quite dislikes London, when he’s alone. _England_ feels like a foreign country at the best of times, but London is somehow a whole ‘nother thing entirely. It’s like the endless streams of tourists and busy-busy people just don’t have _time_ to spare a kind word, wish you well, or even just smile politely when you hold the door for them. No, here it’s every man and woman for themselves on the Tube, or fetching lunch at Pret à Manger, or walking on impossibly crowded streets—and sometimes simply just _standing still_ and taking a breather without being watched scornfully feels unfeasible. London is not really where Taron’s heart lies, and he’s painfully aware of that. The North, however, is much better. Colder weather—warmer hearts. The people there just remind him of _his _people. 

Lying in bed, too tired to get up, too awake to fall back asleep, he picks up his book from his bedside table—it’s kind of weird, reading the autobiography of someone you’ve worked with, but the copy is autographed and addressed especially to Taron (_T, I hope you’ll enjoy the bits of the story our mutual friend is in. Sadly, the 90’s are over, and I think I’m not his favourite anymore—but that’s okay, because you’re much better. Break a leg, you absolute star. G xx_), and that’s very thoughtful and sweet—so here he is. He knows that, if anyone is going to get him, right now, it’s Gary Barlow.

And how very fitting, in fact, that the next few paragraphs in the book resonate with his train of thought _perfectly_.

_We’re still a bunch of northern teenagers at heart, when we get going. We revel in our northernness. It’s a constant pleasure. Being northern outwardly involves a lot of huffing and puffing, but what you need to understand is that, for a Northerner, moaning is an extremely enjoyable pastime. The vast majority of Northerners hate the word “London”. It’s a place we can’t even be seen to be enjoying, but actually, we’re fascinated by it. On the way out of the city, it’s always good to say, “Can’t wait to get ‘ome! And away from _that_ London.” If something’s too cool, we like to do it down by saying, “It’s all a bit London.” There’s no finer sight than a northerner sitting in a restaurant like the Wolseley. See the sheer joy on their faces at being somewhere exciting and posh, and then watch the lip-curling moment when the bill arrives._

_Northerners do like to travel—they just enjoy getting home more. Especially if you’ve been somewhere gorgeous and hot, and on your arrival home it’s freezing and raining—that’s the cue to sit back and pronounce, “Ahh, that’s better.” A cold wind is a pleasurable experience for a Northerner. We label it “brash”. Winds like these are normally found in Blackpool, the North of England’s premier beach destination. I love Blacky._

_More than anything, Northerners love being northern. We have endless jokes at our own expense that make it alright to do pretty much anything—get fat, get pissed till you fall over, wear no sun cream, never tip anyone, get in a fight, steal a car... The answer’s always, “Fuck that, I’m a northerner!”_

_You hear stories about all the great bands and their big fallings-out, and I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine being in a band where no-one likes one another. Take That’s a happy band. We don’t fall out... no-one has arguments. We solve problems with humour or we just say, “Fuck that, we’re northerners! It’ll be reet.” _

Taron rarely remembers reading anything more relatable in his whole bloody life. It’s true: England—heck, the whole bloody Kingdom—is not _about_ London. London is the glitz and the glam and the businessmen in sharp suits and the theatre and the expensive nights out and the showbiz, but it’s not what he ever sees himself falling in love with—_who_ he’s _fallen_ in love with. For Taron, it’s about the kindness of heart and the sharp humour and the strong accents and the even stronger tea—_so strong, you could stand a spoon in it_—and the bizarre, quirky expressions and the incredible pop culture and… yeah, makes a whole lot of sense, really, that he fell so hard and so fast for not just one, but _two_ northern men.

Like that, there is the sudden need to dust his turntable off and play some Beatles. And, since Taron is home alone on a Saturday with nothing to do, that’s _precisely_ what’s going to happen. He gets up, opens the balcony door—and the early autumn air is _finally _chilly and crisp, thank God—puts a hoodie on, swaps his PJ bottoms for some trackies, grabs his phone from the bedside table, and strolls into the living room. The turntable is perched upon a baroque wooden pedestal, which looks just as kitsch as it sounds, but which Taron simply loves to look at. Despite the sound system being as modern as it gets, the whole setup just gives off that antique gramophone vibe that Taron has always been weak for. He approaches the heavy wooden bookshelf next to it, and takes a moment to just look at his records, fondly—he has hundreds, by this point, and yet he doesn’t see how he’ll ever be able to stop himself from buying more. He can’t remember the last time he managed to get himself to Brick Lane Sunday market, or to Notting Hill, or even bloody Camden (which by all means is a _nightmare_, lately—but he has always secretly loved the atmosphere of that place) and come home with his wallet considerably lighter and his arms heavy with treasures. He definitely needs to do it again, sometime. Possibly with Richard.

_Richard_.

Taron realises he hasn’t checked his phone, since he got up. He fishes it out of his pocket, sees it light up, smiles at it, and flicks his thumb over the string of notifications he’s got in the last few hours. He marvels only slightly at how happy it makes him to realise that Richard has bombarded him with texts from his cab ride and from his wait at the airport.

(4:31 A.M.) _Miss you already_

(4:35 A.M.) _I love you_

(4:42 A.M.) _This cabbie is chatty. It’s too early for chatty._

(4:55 A.M.) _Asked me about _Bodyguard_ though. Nice, innit? I thought only you and my mother saw that._

(5:05 A.M.) _Terminal 5 looks haunted this morning. Only me and a few other miserable buggers flying BA._

(5:16 A.M.) _They’re going to Ibiza, though. Wondering if it’d be too much to ask if we may swap places._

(5:25 A.M.) _Miss you still. The girl from security recognised me. She was pretty. You’d have hated it. ;)_

(5:30 A.M.) _Someone ought to explain why they have this much alcohol and ciggies for sale at the duty-free shop. I’m about to make some really bad decisions._

(5:35 A.M.) _Ah, fuck. I just bought Camels._

(5:36 A.M.) _Also, it’s the flavoured ones you like. Because you’re a freak. Ten bloody packs of ‘em. Because I love you. And, well… yeah, I love how you taste after you’ve had one._

(5:43 A.M.) _Wow, flight’s on time. They’re boarding us already. I can barely believe my eyes._

(5:55 A.M.) _Well, that was surprisingly quick and efficient. Sitting down already._

(5:59 A.M.) _The man next to me just asked me whether I’m that bloke from the show about the Home Secretary that was just on telly. On a second thought, the baseball cap was a really bad idea, this morning._

(6:02 A.M.) _I just checked the movies and they have both _Kingsman_. Sleeplessness sorted._

(6:15 A.M.) _They’re making us turn our phones off, love. But at least I’ve still got Eggsy. God, you’re delicious in this. Speak soon. I love you xxx_

After going through all the texts, Taron feels _giddy_. Richard has _never_ been that outspoken or funny or cute via text-message before. He’s usually brief and concise, preferring his actions to speak for him instead. Which is why this giant, adorable stream of consciousness, more than anything else, makes Taron come to terms with the fact that something shifted, last night—and definitely in the right direction.

Taron can’t stop smiling. He knows Richard doesn’t have access to an Internet connection—he might, if he wanted to, these intercontinental flights have bloody Wi-Fi these days, after all—but Taron knows Richard would definitely be one to prefer flight mode, if only to avoid being connected to the rest of the world for a few hours. Nonetheless, he feels like he should reply immediately.

(7:15 A.M.) **I love you so much, I feel like I’m bursting at the seams. That’s how much I love you, Richard Madden.**

He feels like a schoolboy in love after that, but he doesn’t much care about it. In fact, only a few minutes later, he feels like reinforcing the message.

(7:17 A.M.) **I can’t wait for you to get back here so I can kiss every inch of you.**

(7:18 A.M.) **Also, thank you for cigs. Trust you love me enough not to smoke ‘em all before the weekend is done. ;)**

(7:19 A.M.) **FaceTime me as soon as you land. I love you X**

Taron represses the urge to kiss his phone—he’s feeling _extremely_ cheesy about this whole thing, so what—and just rests it on his coffee table instead, deciding to go back to the activity he abandoned in favour of gushing over Richard’s texts. He flicks through the considerable section of his record collection that is made up of Beatles LPs and singles, and he settles on _Sgt. Pepper_, which is his personal favourite. Well—that’s a lie, actually. Probably the White Album beats them all, to be fair. But anyways. Taron feels like jamming to _Getting Better_ and _Strawberry Fields_, right about now, so _Sgt. Pepper_ it will be.

He puts the record on—turns the volume up so it’s reasonably loud—and strolls into the kitchen to make himself a cuppa and some toast. He looks at the wall opposite the counter and all the appliances, and wonders whether Richard might be right about that being the perfect place to put the blasted _Troubadour_ sign from set. Taron keeps forgetting to ask Dexter whether he can have it.

“Ok, Google, remind me to ask Dex about the _Troubadour_ sign!” he says, a bit too loud—something else he keeps forgetting is that his friends from home got him a _second_ Google Home thingamabob to keep in his kitchen, and that he doesn’t have to yell from one side of the apartment to the other in order for the one that sits in his bedroom to pick up his ramblings. The speaker on the counter behind him gives him positive feedback, and then goes back to sleep. Well, he says “sleep”. More like _listening to everything anyone in this flat says at any given time and transmitting it directly to the government to be used against us all_. The bloody things are freakish to say the least, but he’s gotten used to them. They’ve still got nothing on RDJ’s Jarvis, though. That’ll be the day.

By the time Taron’s done with his toast, which takes just under ten minutes, the Yorkshire tea has finally finished brewing properly. The package says five to six minutes are enough but hey, builders’ tea should _never_ be weak—and if you do make it weak by mistake, might as well chuck it directly down the drain and start over. Milk and sugar go in (_stevia_, actually, an inheritance from his days on _Eddie_—Hugh hardly ever shut up about the blasted stuff being _so much better for you than sugar_), just as Paul finishes singing _She’s Leaving Home_ from the living room. It’s John’s turn, then, and he’s going on about Mr. Kite and the Hendersons’s show at Bishopsgate, and Taron loves this one _a lot_, so he picks up his tea and goes to sits on the couch.

While he’s humming along, enjoying the tune and the circus imagery and the thick Scouse accent (especially the latter, in fact, because _anything_ northern seems to very pleasantly tickle his heartstrings, this morning), Taron is suddenly hit by the thought of Jamie. The phone is in his hands again, and it reads 7:46 A.M. in flashy white numbers and letters—and the sitar is playing, George is singing _Within You, Without You_, and it’s all very mellow and exotic. Jamie’s iMessage conversation is open on the screen in no time and, just as Taron is typing out his message and low-key wondering whether texting the man before 8 A.M. and hoping for an immediate reply might be too far a stretch—because _very_ few souls in London seem to be awake, this morning—the three dots in the speech bubble from Jamie’s side of the conversation pop up. And, frankly, it’s almost _embarrassing_ how quickly Taron’s heart picks up its pace at that.

(7:47 A.M.) **_You awake, sunshine?_**

Taron smiles and bites down on his lower lip after reading the nickname. Richard and Jamie both seem to have settled on associating him with the sun, for some reason, which is extremely sweet and also impossibly flattering, and he completely does not deserve any of it.

He decides to take a selfie—a shot of his face behind his mug, which this morning is one of those corny pieces that his Mam bought halfway through William and Kate’s engagement, and that Taron simply _had_ to steal (he unironically is an absolute sucker for the Royal Family).

(7:48 A.M.) **Sure am, love. X**

The reply comes in almost immediately.

(7:48 A.M.) **_That mug… I thought more highly of you, T. I’m disappointed._**

(7:48 A.M.) **_Only kidding. Always lovely to see *your* lovely mug._**

(7:49 A.M.) **_Here’s mine._**

A picture pops up on Taron’s screen, and—gods save him—it’s a _bed selfie_. And it’s, well, a lot to take in. Jamie’s early-a.m. ‘do is adorably scruffy and all over the place. His eyes are light grey and green, and they’re doing a very good job of penetrating Taron through the screen. Jamie’s cheeks and chin are a tad darker than what his usual clean-shaven self sports these days—and Taron's always been partial to a bit of a beard, so, especially when it comes to these two men that are shaking up his love life, the five o’ clock shadow is _definitely_ appreciated, thank you very much. Jamie is also lying against a dark grey pillow, and the contrast with his light complexion is, quite simply, breathtaking.

All in all, in Taron’s humble opinion, Jamie Bell looks _ravishing_, this morning.

(7:50 A.M.) **Well, fuck me, James.**

Right then, the bouncy intro to _When I’m Sixty-Four_ comes on, though, and Taron’s dirty thoughts and all the potential for additional more-or-less subtle innuendos seem to be put on a sort of weird hold. Suddenly, all Taron can think of is… _growing old with Jamie_?

_When I get older, losing my hair_

_Many years from now_

_Will you still be sending me a Valentine_

_Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?_

Taron’s hopelessly dreamy persona takes the wheel once again—he starts singing along to the tune and ultimately decides to actually _record_ himself singing along to the bit of the chorus he wants to address to Jamie.

_Will you still need me, will you still feed me_

_When I’m sixty-four?_

He sends the audio clip and sees the colour of the file change—Jamie is already listening. Then he’s typing again. Then he stops. Which, for ten excruciatingly long seconds, results in Taron wondering whether he’s pushed it too far. But then his phone is vibrating—Jamie as Bernie in black-and-white leaning against his Rover pops up on the screen—and it’s all _grand_.

“Morning, gorgeous,” Taron says, grinning.

“Of _course_ I will, you silly fool,” Jamie says, evidently having decided to skip the greetings to directly answer the question from Taron’s audio message. “I’ll always need you. And you’re hopeless at cooking, so—yes to the second bit, too.”

Taron’s heart swells up. And yeah, Paul singing about renting a cottage in the Isle of Wight and having grandchildren on his knees is _definitely_ making the lovestruck bliss a tad better still.

“Good, because I too am ready to watch you grow old. Bet you’ll be a goddamned silver fox, _James_.”

“Already kinda am,” Jamie replies, chuckling. “_Proper swear down_, the grey hairs just won’t stop appearing.”

Ah, yes, hello. The Teesside slang that makes Taron want to have sex with Jamie has been unleashed. And Taron now wants to have sex with Jamie. Great.

“You’re a bloody looker and you bloody know it, love,” he reassures Jamie. “Besides, I’m probably just gonna _lose_ all me hair. Be lookin’ like an egg by the time I hit thirty-five, won’t I?”

Jamie laughs out loud at that.

“That whole shaving-your-hairline business giving your confidence a hard time, then?”

“Yeah,” Taron regretfully admits. “It’s a whole thing.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much, though. You look like a Jude Law type to me, hair-wise,” Jamie states, knowingly, “and have you _seen_ Jude Law these days?”

“Oh, as _if_, Jamie. Please don’t mock me this way.”

“I’m one-hundred-percent serious, Taron. Looking forward to seeing that happen,” Jamie says, sweetly.

“Likewise… I think?” Taron says, hesitant. This is all _way _too flattering.

“Any plans for today, pet?” Jamie asks, changing the subject completely.

“Zilch. You?” Taron replies, hopeful.

“Nada,” Jamie says—and Taron swears he can hear a wicked smile form on the man’s face. “Mine or yours?”

“Yours, J. _Always_ yours,” Taron says, anticipation already building in his chest. “Be there in one hour, gorgeous. Don’t bother putting any clothes on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are by McFly (because we did need something sappier than Alex Turner for this one) and, of course, The Beatles.
> 
> Thanks to [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=) for forcing me to be less coy with y’all about my everlasting obsession with Gary Barlow (yeah, yeah, yeah, if any of you are familiar with my [other work](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/works%20rel=), you should know it’s the world’s worst kept secret, anyway), for making me set Taron and Richard against a nicer backdrop than Woburn Square Garden (forreal, people, even on a sunny day that place gives me absolute _chills_), and for feeding me the perfect way to convey Jeremy and Simon’s involvement in the dinner.
> 
> Which brings me to the justification for the obvious namedrop of the queen herself, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, who for some reason just mentioned the restaurant I set Taron and Richard at in a recent [interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pPOQxa8dQYc%20rel=) she did with Seth Meyers. I saw it _after_ having written this whole shebang, so you’ll excuse me if I say _cosmically tethered_ once again, won’t ya? 
> 
> Again, Gary snuck his way into this one too, apparently, because I’ve been listening to the audiobook version of his autobiography, these days, and everything I hear coming out his mouth resonates with me in a way that I find almost terrifying, sometimes. Hence, that rambly bit about the North of England, which I am fully and completely not sorry about—not even in the slightest.
> 
> Last but not least, Beatles mania came back knocking on my door last week, when a few of my favourite artists ([Taron](https://i.dailymail.co.uk/1s/2019/09/27/10/18988314-7510197-Glitzy_Taron_Egerton_was_among_the_star_studded_guest_list_at_th-m-190_1569575353061.jpg%20rel=) included, of course) were invited to the celebration for the fifty-year anniversary of _Abbey Road_. This umpteenth association between Breezy Baby and something I’ve loved since I was an infant rolling around in my crib made it so that I _had_ to do something with hit. Which brought about sappy Taron and Jamie. It is what it is, people.
> 
> Oh, and by the way—next week is Billy Elliot’s turn again. I know, I know, we’ve just had a Jamie chapter last Tuesday. But listen. You’re aware by now how big of a pain writing Richard is, for me. Jamie just flowed better. I hope you’ll forgive me.
> 
> Until then, have a great one.
> 
> Love,
> 
> C xx


	7. 7. Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie spends a day spying—_observing very closely_—Taron and Richard, as they film the _Honky Cat_ sequence.
> 
> Doesn’t really know what’s happening, but he knows he’s in for a wild ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people. _Tuesday_ again, is it? Hadn’t even noticed.
> 
> I wrote this chapter so long ago, I could barely remember how it went when I picked it up again last week. And boy oh boy has it changed.
> 
> [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=) did a great job on this one, as per. They fed me lots of golden ideas, fished me out of the turbulent sea of introspection I always tend to get myself lost into, these days (multiple times, too), fact-checked me when I got it wrong—all in the span of less than a week. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> My girls, [ supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof) and [ Egertonsend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egertonsend), thank you for always letting me bend your ear about this shitstorm of a fic. I love you a lot.
> 
> So. _Jamie_. My favourite man. You know, the guy who actually tap-dances irl? Yeah, that guy. He was actually on set when Taron and Richard filmed that god-awful dancing bit that, to Richard’s immense relief, got cut out of the _Honky Cat_ extravaganza. Jamie mentioned the episode so many freaking times in interviews—which, naturally, made my mind run wild in search for reasons why he would have such strong feelings about it.
> 
> This is your official angst warning, by the way. Let’s get started.

** _Part I - Dance as if somebody’s watching, ‘cause they are_ **

** **

_“What was your favourite scene to film?”_

_“There was certain things I liked being around to see, like [Taron]and Richard Madden have this great kind of movie musical of the 50’s kind of inspired montage sequence that they do, which I thought was quite extraordinary, lots of choreography and that, spanning through time very quickly, as Elton becomes more and more successful and more and more rich, and more and more affluent, and that’s a really fun sequence, it’s a sequence that I’m not in, but I enjoyed it watching them do it, it was really fun.” _– Jamie

_“One should always be critical of tapping.” _– Jamie

_“It’s very cheeky and naughty and we had a lot of fun with it despite the logistical challenges. Richard was better at it than I was. There’s a sequence that’s cut actually, which is slightly heart-breaking because a lot of work went into it.” _– Taron

Jamie arrives to set early on a Thursday and is surprised to find that it’s all very… _whimsical_. All around him are dancers running about, rehearsing bits of choreography and being made up by the squad of artists that have appeared in mass to help Lizzie out for the day. The amount and range of props and different setups ready to be used is also _incredible_ to say the least—the inside of a tailor shop, a dressing room with a big, circular sofa in the middle and clothes scattered everywhere, a long, rectangular restaurant table, perfectly made, make-shift cubist paintings, a huge vintage American car, a catwalk, a circular flight of stairs. Dexter really has gone all out for this one, hasn’t he?

In a corner of the room, Taron and Richard are standing quite close together, mumbling about and…well, they’re _giggling_. They’re probably just discussing how best to coordinate for the complicated routine they’re about to film, and yet Jamie can’t quite put his finger on why the way Richard is looking at Taron right now is making his insides do backflips and his blood boil.

It’s been exactly one week and three days since the Gin Incident, and the number of times Jamie has found himself thinking about Taron’s lips and his naked body is starting to add up to an embarrassing amount. He’s pleased they have talked about it, and that Taron’s little speech contained, among others, the words_ you take my breath away_—and that may or may not have resulted in them shagging each other’s brains out once again. Thrice, actually, but Jamie’s not really one to brag. Normally.

He is not a moron, either, though, and he knows something might definitely be up with Taron and Richard. Taron has always been transparent about his attraction for the Glaswegian hunk, and honestly Jamie can’t really bring himself to blame the man for it. One only just needs to have a functioning pair of eyes to agree with Taron on that one, really. Jamie is 85% convinced Richard has already made his move—he noticed a shift in behaviour on his part approximately six days ago, when Taron complained about his strained neck and Richard was all over him in no time, touching and pinching and rubbing and, probably not thinking anybody would be around to see, _kissing_ Taron behind his ear. Despite Taron gushing over Jamie the day before that, seeing such a picture before his eyes really did not help Jamie feel confident and like a leading, alpha man in this whole thing. Because if one of them was to be labelled that, it would most definitely be Richard _fucking_ Madden. On top of all this, what doesn’t benefit Jamie’s sanity whatsoever either is that Taron and Richard are playing _lovers_ in this blasted movie, and that he’s relegated to the exclusively-straight-best-friend-and-songwriting-partner-who-loves-him-but-not-in-_that_-way role. Therefore, Jamie is aware that today’s scene is most definitely going to be _something_.

Jamie is not even really supposed to be on set—it’s his day off, but he’s come anyways. And he kind of does hate himself for caving in and getting his arse out of bed because Taron has asked him, and _of course I’ll come, T, it’ll be dandy to see you film that_, while the real reason behind Jamie being on set at all is to spy on Taron and Richard. Actually, _spy_ might be a poor choice of word, here—Jamie is hardly being sneaky about this whole thing. No, the proper way to phrase would be, like, _observe very closely_. _Observe Taron and Richard very closely_, then, and try to understand whether any signs of what Jamie is already labelling as their _sleeping arrangements_ are seeping through the song and the dance and the _kissing _that they’re supposed to be doing, any minute now—because, yeah, there’s apparently going to be some kissing. Of-fucking-course there is. Jamie stole Taron’s script a few days back, glanced at one of the last pages, and did his best not to wince too loudly. Probably failed, now that he thinks about it. Taron did say he should come to set today, though—he’d be delighted to have him, in fact. So, surprise surprise, here he fucking is.

For some reason, he’s made an effort today. He’s wearing one of his favourite T-shirts—a dark green number, _very_ skin-tight, a pair of dark grey trousers, black rocker boots, and a black leather jacket. Jamie knows Taron is extremely weak for the cowboy look, but his true persona is gasping to come out of the Bernie clothes and plunge back into his own. He needs to let the impossible tight tee show he’s been working out like a motherfucking madman these days, while allowing its emerald colour to make the green hues in his eyes pop dramatically. He hopes the black and the leather will help make him look strong and mysterious and _attractive_, too, because Richard is now circling around Taron, buzzing like a bloody king bee around a particularly delicious bit of royal jelly, and Jamie is feeling self-conscious as all hell—heck, he’s fucking jealous. There, he said it. _Jealous_.

Jamie barely notices he’s getting himself quite worked up, almost cross, even, and only when Taron’s gaze turns momentarily away from where Richard’s magnetism is locking him in place does he realise how childishly cross this, let’s face it, _nonexistent_ rivalry (God, really, James? _Rivalry_? What is this, a Jane Austen novel? Get over yourself, mate) has got him. Now that Taron’s eyes are on Jamie’s, well, the whole world has stopped. Like it does every single fucking time North Wales’ own sweetheart looks at him, in fact—but today, for some reason, it’s even better and more intense. Jamie feels the corners of his mouth curl up automatically, impossibly quick, eager (_too_ eager, perhaps), but he can’t help it, because Taron is in his arms in a few quick steps, and he smells like some expensive lavender cologne and faintly of cigarette smoke—and Jamie can’t even stop and wonder whether the latter scent could possibly come from _Richard_, too busy inhaling it all in and hugging the man tight.

“So glad you came down, J,” Taron is saying into his neck, and he has the definite feeling that Taron could probably kiss him there and then—if it weren’t for the fact that there are approximately fifty people around them and that at least ten of them are generally busy fussing over Taron at any given time of the day, anyway. And a dang right shame that is, too, because there really is nothing more Jamie would prefer doing, at the moment, than claim those lips. Nah, that’s going to be Richard’s gig, for the day, isn’t it? Not that it’s, like, a competition in any way—as he seems to constantly have to remind himself.

“Couldn’t miss it, T,” Jamie replies, and it’s true—he _really_ couldn’t have missed that for the world. He briefly pictures himself sitting at home by the phone waiting for a text from Taron reporting on how well his day swirling round on set with Richard went, and he’s so very glad he’s put his big boy pants on and dragged himself here to _witness _it all first-hand, instead. Then again, he’s not quite sure which one is worse, but he’s here now, so bring it on, he guesses.

“You’re going to _love_ it, J,” Taron says, soft, in Jamie’s ear.

Jamie somehow sorely doubts that. He does his best to agree, nonetheless, and proceeds to untangle from the hug, which has been going on for a little too long (and might well have gotten a little too _handsy_ for it to still be labelled chaste in such a public setting).

Jamie does, however—because he’s a lovesick moron, and simply cannot help himself—make a point of kissing Taron’s forehead. Just _for good measure_, you know. Fate makes it so that this, incidentally, is also the moment when Jamie’s eyes surprisingly find _Richard_’s—and, boy, what a sight the man is. The infinite blue oceans appear to scrutinise the scene in front of him very intently, and for a second Jamie is positive he can see a kind of glint in them, just a flashing light, which comes and goes very quickly, and then Richard is smiling at him, and it’s somehow impossibly _devilish_. His stare doesn’t scream jealousy at all, for some reason—there’s a weird intimacy in it, a sense of camaraderie of sorts, and Jamie doesn’t quite know what to make of it, but grins back at Richard over Taron’s head and pats his shoulder, before letting go of him completely and seeing him strut back towards Richard with purpose.

Jamie sees just one last thing, then—something that makes his breath positively catch in his throat. God, did Richard really just _wink_ at him?

Saying the day drags on is probably both an understatement and extremely unkind to Taron, Richard, and the tens of dancers and crew members who are working their butts off to make this quite incredible piece of cinema. Nonetheless, time does indeed seem to have been turned down to slo-mo for as long as it takes to shoot the whole sequence. The scene is mesmerising, the tune catchy as it's ever been, the costumes outrageous and amazing, the cinematography on point—just top-notch stuff, really. There’s just one small, insignificant detail that Jamie just can’t get over, namely how _smitten_ the two men front and centre seem to be with each other. For example, there’s the whole business of them waltzing around a changing room in bloody kimonos, and Taron _nuzzling_ Richard and apparently making him lose his train of thought effectively enough that Richard actually _forgets_ he needs to lip-sync, and he ends up just opening his mouth and closing it again, looking completely lost and in love, while one of his hands is on Taron’s chest, enveloped by both of Taron’s like it’s his most prized possession. A moment, Jamie suspects, Dexter has most definitely caught on camera. When Jamie turns to look at Dexter, perched upon his stool and watching the scene from behind the cinematographer’s screen, he can’t help but notice just how _fond_ the man looks—and Jamie just knows that this particular moment, this slip, this oh-so-perfectly imperfect string of actions is going to make it into the final cut. For _fucking_ sure.

A definite knot in Jamie’s stomach has formed at the sight of them, and it just won’t seem to go away. Jamie is well aware, of course, that the reason for it lies somewhere between the fact that he’s now absolutely positive Taron has been getting it from Richard for _weeks_, and enjoying it quite a bit, too, and the fact that he can’t even bring himself to blame Taron for it, since who in the world would not fall down to their knees and pray Richard Madden for sweet mercy when the man looks like _that_ on the daily, really. Heck, Jamie himself is having trouble thinking straight after a single bloody _wink_ from Richard. It’s weird. It’s _impossible_. It’s like… Like the man is Prince Charming all over again, and Jamie is the blushing chambermaid. And oh, wow, here Jamie’s mind goes, travelling way too fast to the most wrong place it can reach. He’s now imagining Richard in those way-too-tight white trousers. Of _course_ he is. Quick, better think of something, anything, to avoid embarrassing himself. A complicated tap routine might do?

Coincidentally, the singing bit seems to be over, and Jamie is confronted with what he never would have thought he needed to see—Taron and Richard _dancing_. And it’s, well… Hey, the outfits are great! There’s dozens of dancers wearing tuxedo tops and what distinctly looks like white, old-fashioned boxer shorts as bottoms. Taron is in a top hat and a full-sequin suit jacket with a heart pattern on it, and Richard in one of his usual shark suits and a fedora. The choreography is incredible, too. The dancers are amazing—and props to Adam for the hard _fucking_ work he must have done on this, really, because it is undoubtedly some of the best tapping Jamie has seen in a while. _Bra-vo_.

And then—oh, look! There Taron and Richard go, dancing their little hearts out. Good gracious, they’re sitting down and _tapping_ too, and then they’re up and circling around each other, and they’re doing, what, some _Charleston?_ and general kicking about, and then there’s the weird thing with their hands on their knees that you only normally see people doing when they have absolutely no bloody clue what they’re doing on a dancefloor, and—ah, who is he kidding? It’s _awful_. All of it. They’re both awkward as hell. Richard looks like he has a giant stick up his bum, and Taron’s smile just looks fake, like he doesn’t want to be doing any of that, like he feels _inadequate_, faced with all the wonderful dancers around him—and this movie is about _him_, for crying out loud (well, about Elton, really, but the two are one and the same by this point, as far as Jamie is concerned), and Taron should not feel like that for even one second he spends bopping about on set. But hey, it’s, fine, really. Not like Jamie would _most definitely_ have been able to do a much better job of it. Not like he could have made sure Taron would feel at ease and would have taken the time to rehearse over and over and over, until he’d have been at ease with the scene and actually looked the part. Not like Jamie is a bloody _professional dancer_, anyway, eh?

For _fuck’s_ sake.

Jamie doesn’t have enough time to process any of this, though, or to give the actual _notes _he’s been taking to Adam (yeah, he’s adamant about always having to be critical about tapping, so what, sue him), because his vision is all of a sudden _blurred_ once again. They’re at the point where Taron and Richard have to kiss and kiss and kiss again, for what feels like five hundred fucking times, and Jamie feels like an absolute _creep_ for over-analysing the scene from behind where Dexter is standing, to try and detect any potential slip of tongue or lip biting—he’s partial to _those_, in particular, when it comes to kissing Taron. Which in turn makes him wonder whether _Richard_, who’s obviously been kissing the man off-camera for a while, too, might have the same thing for it as he does.

By the time the scene’s all but done, Taron and Richard seem to have moved past the dread caused by the terrible dancing, and they’re lying on the floor on a giant reproduction of the _Honky Cat_ record, and they’re _giggling_—the electricity of the singing and the dancing and the endless shameless, called-for flirting and the godsend _scripted_ twirling kiss positively sparking through their flashy costumes and out into the world. 

Jamie is, however, surprised to find his tired eyes scorching at the sight in front of him and that the sensation does not solely come from the green monster that has effectively taken residence in his brain, but rather from what one would commonly call an all-consuming _urge_. It’s an urge to peel Taron away from Richard, press him against a wall, and snog him senseless. It’s an urge to strip him down and bite and suck on every square inch of skin he can reach, marking him as his. But, oh, wow—it’s also an inexplicable urge to _watch_ it happen between Taron and Richard. See the pair of them go at it. And, maybe, who knows, take part in it? Maybe, just maybe… But, no, that’s just impossible, right? No, no way little old Jamie Bell has a chance with _Richard_, now, does he? The man’s the stuff of fairytales and fantasy drama. He’s to die for. He’s sinful. He’s _forbidden_. He’s… Ah, fucking hell—how did Jamie go from jealousy to lust in three seconds flat? He can just sense that this is going to be a whole thing, and he doesn’t know whether he’s quite ready for what’s to come.

The applause after Dex calls the last cut of the day is equally filled with giddy happiness and shattering fatigue. Jamie observes as Richard pulls Taron into a tight embrace and plays with a strand of the Elton hair the man’s still wearing. Richard obviously whispers something into Taron’s ear, and Taron immediately bursts into fits of laughter—and, right after the hug is all but over, he looks at Richard like he’s the answer to all his fucking prayers. Jamie knows The Look well enough, by now. It’s the one Taron gave him on the blasted rooftop. It’s the one he gave him right before their lips crashed together for the umpteenth time, on that blessed day they made love all over Taron’s bedroom furniture—and the rest of his apartment, too. Damn, Jamie really had let himself believe that look was reserved to _him_, and him alone.

Everyone congratulates each other and there are pats on the back all around, and Jamie is trying his best to keep his face under control through all of it. Failing, too, probably.

And then, there's a weird and new experience that Jamie cannot for the life of him make sense of. It's a form of penetrating _three-way eye contact_. Taron is looking at Richard, who is looking at Jamie, and Jamie is looking at the pair of them, alternatively, and then he has to deal with the _spark_ between the two once again—and that’s when it registers. The inescapable feeling that Jamie needs to fuck right off to his apartment. Since, well, although it’s already quite cold outside, he can’t possibly get under an icy stream of water soon enough. Funnily enough, on top of the rage and the whole panoply of desire-fuelling images that swam in front of him the whole bloody day, he finds it's Richard's stupid fucking sapphires that have him hopelessly transfixed and have got him into the state he's in right now.

Richard. Jamie loves him, but he so wishes that he didn’t exist, at the moment. He can just _feel_ the solitary moments of self-doubt on their way, and he dreads every second of what’s coming.

** _Part II – Dear jealousy, when did you move in with me? This bed wasn’t made for three, it’s time for you to leave_ **

“Jamie, Jamie, wait!”

Taron is suddenly running after Jamie, his outrageous platform shoes thudding distinctly. Jamie stops in his tracks and turns slightly to justify why he left _that_ quickly. He really, _really_ could not take it anymore.

“Sorry, love, did not mean to sneak out on ya. Just not feeling very well, like…” But before he can get his excuse out, Taron is sporting his signature cheeky smile and somehow backing Jamie up against a corner that is darker than any other spot around them.

The way Taron’s lips meet his is charged with something, then. Something new, something that Jamie has never quite experienced before, something—no, _someone_ that makes Jamie’s head spin and his knees buckle. He’s not sure if this is good or bad, yet, mind, but the answer to each and every question that Jamie has been asking himself all day is right there, written all over Taron’s tongue, the one currently taking over Jamie’s mouth. It feels, smells, _tastes_ like Richard is between them, during that kiss—and my oh _my_ is it making Jamie completely lose control of his whole damn body. He doesn’t even try to argue that this could be dangerous, that they could be seen, that people would most definitely talk, that _Richard_ might walk in on them—because, oh, _fuck_, Taron is now running his hands all over his chest and abdomen, pinning him against the wall and making him squirm. 

When they part, Jamie is only half-surprised to find he’s absolutely breathless. The shock, the deep sighs in each other’s mouths, the inescapable feeling that Taron tastes like _somebody else_—all in all, it’s a very difficult moment. Jamie doesn’t know how to feel about any of this. He’s not yet sure whether this whole thing scares the living daylights out of him more than it arouses him. Both emotions seem equally mixed, right about now. 

Taron is also struggling to breathe properly, it seems, but he still manages to muster the energy to talk—which is Jamie just finds _astonishing_, in the state that they both seem to be in.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay, J,” he says, still impossibly close, still stealing Jamie’s oxygen away from him with every breath he takes, and—goddamnit—could he just _stop_ making Jamie’s head spin, for a couple of minutes? Jamie then manages a weak nod, but still finds it impossible to put words together. Again, way too much is going on. Way. Too. Much.

Taron is looking at him like he’s trying to read deep into his soul. After a little while, there’s a single moment when the man’s expression goes from arousal to what looks like utter terror. Jamie’s convinced he might well mirror that expression—but oh, _God_, Taron’s talking again. “Y’know, Richard and I… We’re… Oh, shit, this is so hard. You’re going to _hate_ me, I can feel it.”

There it is. The name has been spoken, and Jamie’s fears from this morning—which, against Jamie’s best instincts, have been progressively flooded with a considerable amount of _yearning_ throughout the day—are finally confirmed. It’s fine. It’s no big deal really, is it? He was expecting this, right? To have this wonderful man all to himself, when Richard Madden exists… It did seem too good to be true, after all.

Jamie’s lips feel impossibly dry, all of a sudden, and his tongue flicks out to moisten them. Taron’s eyes dart directly to it, and the way his eyes stick to it make Jamie’s heart skip a few beats. _God_, Jamie wants him. And yet, the knowledge of Richard hovering both their heads just won’t stop gnawing at Jamie’s mind like an angry, rabid dog.

Oh, yeah, by the way—he’s supposed to say something about that. Right, time for Jamie to single out his wits from the dark puddle of dread and want that his consciousness has melted into.

“You and Richard are an item? Yeah, no kidding, pet. It’s written all over both your faces.” Alright, Jamie. This is good. A good start. Careful, now. “And you two kissing, well… It’s possibly the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life?”

Jamie says it all without breathing, and he’s pretty proud of himself for sounding like this isn’t a crushing admission that’s fucking his mind up real good.

Taron looks completely dumbfounded. “Are—are you serious, Jamie?”

Is he? Jamie briefly ponders this. He thinks he well might be, underneath it all. The confident, lustful mask is starting to seamlessly blend in with his face. He can _feel_ it happen.

“Oh, love. You should know I _never_ talk shite,” Jamie says, despite himself. _What _is happening?

“Well, that’s debatable,” Taron replies—and it’s almost like he’s seeing right through Jamie, now. God, is that how Fleabag feels around Andrew Scott’s hot priest? Anyways. Jamie sees relief flooding Taron’s sweet features, and the man he’s come to love over the past few months is suddenly back. And thank God for that, really.

“Tut-tut, pet, don’t try the bratty act on me,” Jamie says, his hands coming to rest on the nape of Taron’s neck and caressing him there, soft but firm. Good. Very good. Taking back control. “You know it doesn’t work.” He takes Taron’s lower lip between his teeth, then, and nibbles down on it, playfully, revelling in the single, way-too-loud moan that escapes the man’s lips.

Yeah, he’s back. Richard _who_?

“And—_mmh_, where do you think you’re going, after all this, James?” Taron asks, all wind apparently knocked out of him.

“Home, pet. Me mum’s in town, tonight,” he lies through his teeth. He has an inkling he’ll regret it, but he still needs to get the _hell_ out of there. “Raincheck?”

“But Jamie…” Taron tries to argue, just as Jamie grabs him by the edge of his deep-necked vest.

“No, T. You go out and have fun with Rich, yeah? _Lots _of fun. I’ll be thinking about you. _Both_.”

Phew. That was close.

** _Part III – Light me up, I’m burning with all these things I feel_ **

_Later that night_

An extremely cold shower and forty-five whole minutes of listening to Alexa blabbing about making curry later, Jamie finally sits down on his sofa, steaming plate resting on the coffee table in front of the television—classy as fuck, right? He doesn’t really have to browse Netflix, these days, since he’s happily balls-deep into a re-watch of _Mad Men_, and he’s painfully aware that bingeing the show would be all he did if he wasn’t currently employed by Paramount Pictures—and, incidentally, on Dexter Fletcher and Matthew Vaughn’s leash. Not that he doesn’t love being on a leash, sometimes, mind.

One and a half episodes in, Jamie’s phone buzzes—right when he’s in the middle of toying with a bit of butter chicken and a few grains of saffron rice, and Don Draper is going on about beans, of all things. It’s a text from Taron, of course, and that somehow is enough to set Jamie’s entire body ablaze. It’s incredible how love and anticipation go hand in hand when it comes to the man, these days.

(9:24 P.M.) **We missed you tonight, love. Shame you couldn’t come out.**

He means to the pub—Thursday is always pub night. Jamie hadn’t really felt like pub night material, after a day like that, so he’d politely declined, pleading a family dinner as an excuse. No need for Taron, Richard, or any other member of the cast to know that his family for the night is the Sterling Cooper gang. He just needed to be alone. Process everything that he saw. Everything he felt. Everything Taron said to him, and everything he said back.

(9:25 P.M.) **_Sorry, pet. Next time, okay? Mum says hi!_**

His skin crawls at the blatant fib. He should really add something to that, before Taron demands a selfie.

(9:25 P.M.) **_You were both great, today, by the way. Actual 50’s movie stars._**

(9:26 P.M.) **Were we, now? Enjoyed it, have ya? ;)**

Cheeky, cheeky fuck. Jamie is making a mental note of using everything that the stupid wink-face emoji just left unsaid against Taron, next time he gets him alone—he’s about to retort something equally suggestive to make all that apparent, in fact, but right then another text comes, and it’s one that he was not quite expecting to receive.

(9:26 P.M.) **Richard just mentioned you looked smoking today. And I wholeheartedly agree.**

Jamie is caught in-between wanting to punch the air in triumph—_Richard_, the Greek fucking god himself, reckons he, Jamie, looked good enough to make a thirsty comment about it to Taron—and a re-kindling of the burning red pit of desire in his stomach. He has trouble forming coherent thoughts for a whole minute.

The text is, somehow, incredibly difficult to register. Jamie’s head is suddenly flooded with images of Richard kissing Taron, Richard _fucking_ Taron—and that’s a whole hot mess in of itself already, except his brain is apparently not done. Next up is Richard on all fours, his hair dishevelled, his lips pink and swollen… Sweet baby Jesus, Jamie thinks he may need another cold shower. Or not, actually. Maybe that’s not the answer, this time. He lives alone in a big fuck-off penthouse in the fucking London fucking Docklands, for fuck’s sake. He _can_ have a wank on his immaculate white sofa, if he so wishes. And he might well do that right now, actually. As soon as Don is finished talking, that is. Maybe an orgasm high is precisely what it takes to clear his mind.

(9:28 P.M.) **_Oh, stop it, both of you. You’re making me blush._**

Jamie is not sure how or why he’s being so candid, so open, so unapologetically explicit—but it sure as hell feels liberating. There’s a whole lot of things left unsaid, in that text, too, obviously. Then again, he’s not one-hundred-percent sure _what_ else he’d even want to say, at the moment. So, yeah. Another time, maybe.

(9:28 P.M.) **Not gonna lie, love. We’re both enjoying it way too much.**

Jamie feels the need to gulp down an embarrassing amount of water, at that. He does it so quickly, he almost chokes on half of it. After coughing and wheezing for a good twenty seconds, he decides not to get ahead of himself too much. He knows that he needs time to think long and hard about this whole Richard business that turned his day completely upside down, and that he’s anticipating will not be going away anytime soon.

But first—the “taking control” business again. He _craves_ it. He shoots the text out _very_ quickly.

(9:30 P.M.) **_Dinner tomorrow night? You and me?_**

Taron’s reply comes in after what feels half a heartbeat later.

(9:30 P.M.) **Need me all to yourself, do ya now?**

Another text arrives right after that.

(9:30 P.M.) **The answer’s yes, anyways. You know it is. I need you always, James. My flat, 7PM, bring the stuff.**

Jamie smiles at his phone and glances fondly at the Beefeater standing on his kitchen counter. For a second he swears he can see the Tower of London guard from the label smirk down at him.

(9:31 PM) **_Way ahead of you._**

After Jamie puts his phone down, his body is on fire. Doesn’t matter that his dinner is still lying in front of him, or that the image on the telly is frozen on Don and Megan, who are in the middle of discussing _Revolver_. All he can picture, right now, are Richard and Taron, currently out somewhere in London—probably only a short cab ride away from Jamie—and the drunken shenanigans they’ll probably get up to, once they decide to head back home. The way Richard is going to undress Taron. Peel those impossibly skinny jeans off that perfect arse and those breath-taking thighs. Discard his coat, cardigan and T-shirt, then run his hands on Taron’s shoulders, arms, chest, abs, groin. Jamie can see this all happening, very clearly. Hear Taron’s desperate lustful sighs. Heck, he can _feel_ the man’s body on the tips of his fingers—they’re actually tingling, at the moment. Incidentally, the same fingers seem to want to move on their own accord on Jamie’s own body. They rudely slide from where they’re resting on his lower abdomen, and travel down and down, inside his tracksuit bottoms, moving past his briefs, and coming to grasp his already more than semi-hard cock.

Right. This is really happening, then. _Marvellous_.

As his hand is moving, Jamie tries to imagine what _Taron_ would be seeing in the context Jamie is now picturing in his head—and, boy, it’s a lot. All Jamie has to go on with is a very shirtless Robb, at the moment (and that’s already doing it for him), but he has to remind himself that this is not what Richard Madden looks like anymore. No—if at all possible—he’s much, _much_ better-looking now. Thirty looks _incredible_ on him. Besides, Jamie can bet that, underneath the James Dean white tees, the suede jackets, all the Armani gear—and, really, any other piece of casual clothing that never fails to make the man look effortlessly flawless—Richard is positively _ripped_. Jamie’s pervy side is screaming that it would pay good money to walk in on Richard mid-costume change and shirtless, one day, and he's finding it impossible to silence it, at the moment.

As his cock hardens into his hand a bit more still, Jamie’s mind journeys even further, and now in front of his eyes is swimming the delicious image of himself, naked, somewhere between the two incredible men that he’s spent the whole day watching dance around on set and exchange PDA. In Jamie’s head is Richard the day Jamie met him—perfect, natural hair; a few weeks’ worth of not shaving that _incredible_ beard of his; piercing blue eyes smiling down at Jamie—only he’s stark-naked (absolutely no pun intended), and he’s guiding Jamie’s hands on his own pecs, and Jamie’s feeling them flex under his touch, and the goddamned chest hair is doing everything for him, too, and… Taron is there, watching them, and the way he looks at Richard is just _unbearable_.

And just like that, the imaginary spell between Jamie and Richard is broken. Richard is all over Taron, and he’s kissing and licking and sucking and fingering and fucking him—slow, fast, loving, merciless, it’s all a jumbled-up mess in Jamie’s head, at the moment—and anger and jealousy take the wheel once again, and he’s hard in his own hand but he also feels _dirty_ and _disgusting_ and _rejected_, and like he’ll never be good enough for Taron anymore. Not now he’s had Richard. Not now he knows what it feels like to be adored by such a man. A man that Jamie can never in a million years aspire to equal.

Jamie marvels at the fact that he’s managed to wind himself down mid-wank—which is something that happens so rarely, these days, he can’t actually even remember what to do about it. The turn-off is so complete and definitive that he’s not even sure whether watching porn would do, at the moment. He’s ninety-nine percent positive it wouldn’t, and the remaining one percent doesn’t feel worth exploring in the slightest. What a bloody mess, eh?

He runs to the bathroom to wash his hands, and ultimately settles on the second cold shower of the day. This time he uses a different shower gel, though—cooling, minty, not-at-all luxurious—because his habitual one just always makes him think of Taron. And tonight his subconscious has decided that thinking of Taron is _painful_.

Back in front of the telly—still in his bathrobe, his hair slightly damp, he decides to press _play_ on his remote once again, and try and enjoy the rest of the episode. 

Three or four minutes in, though, Jamie realises he cannot concentrate. Not for the absolute life of him. The dialogue, the story, the costumes, the incredibly accurate settings, the gorgeous photography—literally nothing he’s watching is registering anymore. The clouds in his head are getting denser by the minute, heavy with something he struggles to recognise.

Jamie hadn’t smoked a cigarette in years, before caving in after that one glass of G&T too many that inevitably lead to his and Taron’s bodies becoming one. Taron had offered, and it was _menthols_, no less—Jamie’s favourite—and he was weak and shagged out, and just taking that first drag had felt like being brought back to life after being stuck in the hazy pre-, during, and post-coital limbo for what felt like hours on end. Bottom line being that now Jamie needs a bloody fag and to sort his bloody head out.

He fetches a light cashmere jumper from a drawer in his room, picks up the pack of flavoured smokes he stole from Taron and the heavy-duty Zippo lighter his sister had given him as a birthday present back when he _actually _smoked, and finally gets out onto his balcony.

Right, then. The jumper’s on, the cigarette is lit, and Canada Square looks _gorgeous_ tonight. The lights in most buildings are still on—the poor buggers at Reuters, Citibank, KPMG and Credit Suisse are all clearly working late. From Jamie’s very selfish point of view, though, it’s nothing but a very pretty sight. Time for Jamie’s thoughts to revert to the big Scottish migraine that is Richard Madden. He takes a deep drag off his cigarette, then, and tries to work it all out.

Richard has been nothing but nice to Jamie since the first time they saw each other, outside the man’s trailer. Taron had insisted they both go meet him before the official readthrough to “test the waters”, he’d said—since Jamie and Richard never did a chemistry test. Which, by the way, wasn’t really that big of a deal. There was no real need for that—Dexter and Matthew already seemed pretty settled on both Jamie and Richard for their respective roles. But it just _felt_ like it was important for Taron that they did it. Jamie had half-suspected that Dexter was probably using Taron as his proxy, at the time, but had agreed nonetheless.

For Taron, it seemed, it was simply a matter of getting the pair of them together and just, well, _observing_. And, well, one could argue that first exchange had indeed gone down extremely smoothly. The _Game of Thrones_ banter had been an easy conversation starter, and the almost imperceptible flirting that had followed, well… Jamie still has no idea where _that_ came from. He hopes Richard didn’t notice. Or does he? He’s not sure anymore. And what a shocker that is.

Most days, Richard is handsome and sweet as much as he’s dark and intimidating. He’s quick with a joke and almost always smiling, but he blushes and loses his train of thought quite a bit. Obviously, Jamie resonates profoundly with that last one in particular. In-between takes, Jamie sometimes finds himself staring at the man and trying to work out what in the world he might be thinking about. He just looks so… _lost_, a lot of the time. What’s going on in that mind, for God’s sake?

Any random person looking at Richard probably would have a hard time looking past the man’s gorgeous features, his swoon-worthy smile, his charming talk, that body that makes heads turn—the overall most powerful manly energy Jamie has been around. But Jamie has noticed something, lately, as he’s allowed himself to look a bit closer. Richard is just pensive and _sad_ when he thinks no-one’s looking. Except, again, _Jamie_ is looking. And he knows he might be reading the man completely wrong, but he has an inkling they might well be cut from the same cloth.

Richard was a child actor, back in the day. And, well, child actor life is _rough_—Jamie knows something about that one, that’s for fucking sure. Pre-teen years are a formative time, and Jamie spent those running back and forth between school and movie sets. What a _long life_ he’d already lived before his body and mind did him the favour of turning twenty—after eight-odd movies and a flash of telly. It took a toll on his body and his mental health, too. He loves playing that a bit cool, whenever he can. He’s a survivor, Jamie is. Like Drew Barrymore, Natalie Portman, Jodie Foster, Joseph Gordon-Levitt. All people he massively looks up to. Thank God it was _only_ a BAFTA and not a bloody Oscar he won, when he was fourteen. He suspects that might have gone to his head.

And his love life. _That_ was a whole mess, really. Jamie met Evan at nineteen at Sundance, fell in love with her, even swept her off her feet in his soldier uniform publicly, on the set of that Green Day video… and, yeah, of course, ultimately he managed to muck it all up real good, barely one year into their relationship. But then, a few years and a few more movies later, they randomly met up in New York City and got horribly drunk together. Somehow, it had felt like a good idea at the time to pick this thing between them up again and see how it’d go. As it turns out, not quite as _canny_ as they’d imagined it would be. The constant fighting and the jealousy (yeah, Jamie was supremely jealous back in the day), the broken plates and the rushed proposal, and the even more rushed wedding… alright, yeah, _that_ was a whole fucking mess. The pregnancy was accidental, too, as it happens—but Jamie wouldn’t in a million years _dare _call that one a fail. Not his precious boy. Not Jack. He is Jamie’s ray of sunshine. He’s everything that’s good in the world, and Jamie desperately wants to make the world good enough for him, in turn. Shield him from harm, and teach him everything that’s important. To treasure music, cinema, theatre, and any other form of self-expression. To live life passionately. To love deeply and unconditionally.

_Love_. The four-letter word that has scared the shit out of him for years, and that has come back to his life after just one booming clap of the Welsh thunder, which is now constantly rumbling in his heart and brain at any time of the day or the night. The whole Taron business is a huge chunk of the reason why Jamie is this confused about Richard to begin with. If the man is anything like Jamie—and after that brief but painful spell of self-analysis he just did, he suspects that to definitely be the case—well, he probably has fallen head over heels for Taron, too. Jamie has yet to muster the courage to say that out loud, by the way, but he keeps reminding himself that he really needs to get his shit together and tell the man, before it’s too late. Because, well, if Richard has gotten there first… No, could he? _Jamie_ was there first, right?

Not like Taron seems to want to let go of any of them, for the time being. But Jamie can just feel it coming. The intimate touches, the whispered words, the pair of them giggling together in isolated corners—the overall overwhelming _alpha energy_ that Richard never fails to display around Taron. All of this might one day mean the end of Taron-and-Jamie, because if there is _one_ man Taron would choose, if he had to… that would most definitely _not_ be Jamie.

And what a right shame that is, too—since, well, Taron only taught Jamie to _love_ again, after all, eh? He took Jamie’s hand, caressed his cheek, kissed Jamie all over, and just showed him how easy just _being_ with someone can be. How good it feels to be wanted and cherished this unapologetically and wholly.

Most days, Taron makes Jamie laugh until he genuinely thinks he might burst. He starts singing at random, melodious tones rolling off those delicious lips, and he simply freezes Jamie on the spot while he’s adding milk to his tea, making it harder not to drop everything and swoon. He _stuns_ Jamie with his looks—the sharp jawline, the strong shoulders, the perfect curve of his rear, his powerful legs. Heck, it’s not even been a month since Jamie’s had it—_him_—for the first time, and yet he is hopelessly and irreversibly _addicted_ to that body already.

In a word, Taron is _perfect_. He is sunny and bubbly—all smiles and confidence and sassy comebacks and the constant stream of flirting that got Jamie into all sorts of states before he knew that—yes, he _did_ have permission to act on his desire, on his _feelings_ for this man. God _fucking_ damn—Jamie Bell loves Taron Egerton. A whole bloody lot. In that, Jamie’s _in_ _love_ with him. In that, he absolutely and completely does feel like fulfilling that promise made over the phone and sealed with a wind-swept kiss that brought Taron into his flat, into his arms, and into his bed right after. In that, Jamie would and will do everything and anything in his power to make sure that, whenever Taron does get wrinkles and ends up actually losing some of his hair, it will be _Jamie_ who plants kisses on his head and tells him how gorgeous he still looks. He always manages to look amazing, even these days—even with his bloody hairline shaved off and his hair thinned out. Might be the rose-tinted glasses—but then again, who gives a flying fuck? Taron could go completely bald, as far as Jamie is concerned, and he’d still want the man every bit as much.

Bottom line is, Jamie has never fallen so hard and so fast for anybody else before. Not even the mother of his child, his fellow actress sweetheart—who, for the record, _cheated_ on him. With multiple men. _And_ women. And maybe, he now realises, _this_ is where the heart of the problem lies. She’s fucking scarred him for life, hasn’t she? The monogamous idyll he always pictured as a sexually confused (but still hopelessly romantic) teenager—a love like Paul and Linda’s, a chemistry like Fred and Ginger’s—all but bloody shattered in front of his eyes. What will he tell Jack, when he’s old enough to understand? What will be the answer to the big question—_why are you and mummy not together, daddy_? He’s always imagined being with someone, the day that question is asked. Someone good, stable, _immovable_. Someone here to stay. Someone he could introduce his boy to, and simply go, _daddy’s in love with…_ _her_? Yeah, that one is starting to look less and less likely. No, all that Jamie really wants is _Taron_. Proudly say, in his head, _I’m his, and he is mine_.

An open relationship? _Polyamory_? These unknown concepts are now floating in Jamie’s gloomy, stormy mind. And _Richard_ is the stern, inevitable, moonlight, piercing through all the clouds. _Here, Jamie. Here’s what _could_ be_.

Could it, though?

Maybe. Maybe it could.

Doesn’t cost anything to try.

_Right_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are by Arctic Monkeys (surprise surprise), soft boy Mika, and the everlasting love of my life (alright, maybe behind Gary Barlow)—James Blunt.
> 
> Kinda heartbroken they cut the dancing scene, because Breezy Baby _loved_ filming this. See [for yourselves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_UQ9L5ebhk%20rel=). Richard, however, couldn’t be happier they cut it. Wonder why, eh?
> 
> Genius idea of making Jamie critique the dancing is all [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=)’s. It changed this whole thing, and I’m very grateful.
> 
> Jamie calling Richard a “Scottish migraine” is a complete and utter theft of imagery from my queen [WritingYay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingYay/pseuds/WritingYay). Run, run away from this huge-ass mess of a story and go read about Taron and Richard in a tricky _wedding_ situation in her wonderful [story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19977214/chapters/47292607). I love you, L. 
> 
> Introspective Jamie will forever and always be my favourite. And I want to pin the Jamie/Richard dynamic on [supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof). Y’all have no idea how much stuff we have in store on that front. _No. Idea._
> 
> Also, like I said, the angst was a late development, but I’m loving where this is going. And, by the way—there’s _a lot_ more where that came from.
> 
> Speaking of angsty boys, get ready for everyone’s favourite Prince-Charming-with-imposter-syndrome—Dickie Madden—coming to this space next week. Another difficult one for ya girl. Hope I don’t mess this one up, ‘cause it’s a big one.
> 
> See you very soon.
> 
> Love,
> 
> C x


	8. 8. Richard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard is madly in love.
> 
> Taron is emotional about verbal abuse—even when it’s make-believe.
> 
> Jamie is, quite simply, _a lot_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, lovely people.
> 
> Right off the bat, please let me tell you how incredibly grateful I am for the response I received to my last chapter. I was preparing for bewilderment (and equally dreading people being underwhelmed by it)—but I was clearly mistaken. Thank you thank you thank you for every single lovely comment you guys left. It truly means the world to me that you enjoy where this story is going.
> 
> So. On this fateful Tuesday—when Elton’s autobiography is being released and Taron’s audiobook version with it, and we’re all gonna die happy because of both those things—I’m also back with the new weekly installment of our three favourite Rocketmen. 
> 
> Usual thanks to [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=), who betaed this over and over since its conception (Part I was written a _long_ time ago, y’all have no idea), and who always manages to get me back on track when I lose myself. Happens quite a bit, that. 
> 
> So, Madden. Our _resident anxious Scot_ ([supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof)’s words, not mine). Always a tough one for me, isn’t he. Except, this time, he just _flowed_, for some reason. May be the fact that he’s madly in love, at the moment?
> 
> Nevertheless, kindly do brace yourselves for angst, introspection, apprehension, and the chaos that is his mind, at the moment—because they’re all coming, in the form of an emotionally-charged rehearsal with Taron and an impromptu solo outing alone with County Durham’s favourite dancing boy.
> 
> Let’s get into this.

** _Part I – See, I'm in love with how your soul's a mix of chaos and art, and how you never try to keep 'em apart_ **

_The next day_

Richard is woken up way too early on a Friday morning by Elton’s voice belting out the outro to _Bennie_—it had been Taron’s idea of a joke on a drunken night out to choose that as Richard’s ringtone, and he systematically has a heart attack every time someone calls him, now. And, gods be damned, he _always_ forgets to change it back to a plain vanilla iPhone jingle. Although it might as well be his subconscious kicking in, actually, because that song always makes Richard think of Taron, and hearing it, albeit forcefully, makes his mind wander towards a land of warm embraces and soft, wet kisses and impossibly erotic sounds—not that he doesn’t already think of that every time he gets the chance, anyways. He picks up the phone and glances at the screen—it’s Taron.

“Duckie,” Richard comes in, and wow, where has his voice gone? “What’r’ye doin’ up already?”

“Good morning, princess,” Taron’s melodious tones chime from the other end of the line. Richard wonders how the man manages to be this fresh after a night out drinking. Then again, maybe taking a rain check on each of those four more pints of Magners had been a wise decision on Taron’s part. Pub nights are starting to take a toll on Richard, and this has been making him feel extremely old, recently. “How’s your ‘ead?” Taron continues, and chuckles a little under his breath.

“Done in, for the most part,” Richard admits, and Taron laughs in earnest at that. “Why in the world are you not here, by the way?” Richard asks, realising that sleeping alone had most definitely not been the plan going into last night. Not after spending a whole day flirting and generally acting lovey-dovey on set among a whole crowd of people, not after Richard’s arousal being woken up from its uneasy slumber every single bloody time his lips crushed on Taron’s during that dancing scene that Richard passionately hopes Dexter will decide to cut (but which he still is extremely glad he got to do—any excuse for kissing Taron, really).

“You were _smashed_, my love,” Taron says, “and far be it from me to take advantage of that to get you to do unspeakable things to me.”

Richard can’t believe the blatant lie for a few seconds.

“Okay, first of all, that’s absolute _bollocks_,” Richard begins, “because that’s exactly what I seem to recall happening last time you were ‘round for movie night and we had whisky.”

“Ugh. Yes. Filthy beverage. Still a mystery to me how your people actually seem to enjoy the stuff.”

“I’m not finished—but _how dare you_,” Taron makes fun of his misty-hilled homeland so much these days, Richard’s surprised he still has new material on it—and this early in the morning, too. The man truly is infuriating.

“Please, darling, do go on.” Yeah, so_ infuriating_ doesn’t even begin to cover it, actually.

“As I was saying. Secondly, kindly fuck right off, because I think you’re forgetting that the whole recounting of yer gin adventure with Jamie didn’t actually happen in yer ‘ead. I ‘eard that too. Alcohol makes you _unhinged_, darling,” Richard says, business-like, “and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I really wanted a bit of _that_, last night.”

“Woke up hard for me again, have ya, Dickie?” Taron’s tone has shifted, and he sounds even more cheeky all of a sudden.

“Might ‘ave.”

“You’re _insatiable_.”

“And you’re a dick. Get yer arse up here now won’t ya. We have the day off today—need to re’earse that _bloody_ scene.”

“Is that what we’re calling it, now, Rich? Interesting. _Interesting_,” Taron playfully retorts, and Richard sighs out loud. “Be there in ten, stud.”

“You better.”

_One hour later_

“You will when your money runs out,” Taron says as he’s sitting down in Richard’s red leather armchair.

Richard has his game face on, but still has to try not to cringe too hard while delivering his line. He’s been doing this for twenty bloody years, for Chrissakes, he should know better than to let his emotions seep through the character he’s playing. The movie’s version of John Reid is just plain _awful_, though—no-one in the universe could possibly argue with that. Bizarrely enough, Richard finds himself missing his Romeo-type roles. How nice would it be to act the romantic hero and sweep Taron off his feet instead of spitting horrible things at him through gritted teeth.

“Do your worst. In fact, take me to court. You’ve signed _contracts_ with me, years ago, so… I’ll still be collecting my twenty percent long after you’ve killed yourself.” He’s appropriately standing in the frame of his study door, so he proceeds to act out the smirk and door slamming from the script and hears Taron scream “Get out of my _fucking_ house!” at the top of his lungs right after, on cue.

Taron has gotten himself quite worked up during the rehearsal, Richard notices—he can _swear_ he heard Taron’s heart break right after he was told that Reid _did not care_ what Elton wanted to do with the studio he was paying for. Richard _knows_ this is just acting, that they’re both trained professionals, that they will probably end up kissing and making up, after this—as if there was anything to make up about, anyways. He is aware of all this, but the vibe he’s been getting from Taron the whole morning is simply weird, and he suspects there’s more to it. For example, Richard is now trying to get back into the study room, and the door is not opening.

“Duckie? Everything _alreyt_?”

“Not really, no,” Taron’s voice comes at Richard, muffled by the thick layers of wood between them.

“Wha’ is it, T?” Richard pushes against the door again, but it doesn’t open. Taron must be blocking it from the other side, and be putting his whole weight in it, too, by the feel of it. “May I get back in?”

“Just—no, just, please… Leave me alone for a while.”

Richard’s heart sinks. He knows he won’t _ever_ give up without a fight when it comes to Taron, so he tries again.

“T, please, let me in. Can we at least talk?”

“In a minute. Please leave me be, Richard. I need to be alone. I mean it. Don’t make me swear at you.”

Defeated, Richard finally exhales—he hadn’t even realised he was holding his breath the whole time Taron was speaking. He turns his back to the door and sits against it, resting his head on the hard wood. He briefly wonders why Taron is getting _this_ worked up about the scene, but immediately remembers he’s absolutely not one to speak, judging by how difficult it has been to gather his wits while in character as Reid all bloody morning.

“I’ll be out here. Take yer time, love.”

“Thank you.”

And here Richard goes, spiralling down and down and a little further down still, crushed by the awareness that hurting Taron’s feelings—even if inadvertently, even if it’s just pretend, even if the words are not his—is digging a painful hole right through the middle of him. A dozen scenarios where Taron is absolutely done with him present themselves on a series of silver platters, and each one is more disgusting to look at than the other—and he feels _sick_. Like an actual knot has formed into his oesophagus, and it’s being tightened by the minute.

It’s his anxiety kicking in again, as per, but it’s also so much more. It’s all the _insecurity_, and the innumerable romantic fuck-ups he managed to score during all those the years spent feeling like he’s simply not _worth_ being loved. It’s the fact that Taron is the first person who has made him feel like he might well be. And it’s the fact that he might just have done it all over again—ticked each and every box that’ll make sure that this, what, _relationship?_ will most definitely go South. And it’s awful. Oh, God, he’s actually going to throw up. He needs to run to the bathroom _now_.

He half gets himself to standing, when he hears Taron’s voice again.

“Dickie?”

The ring in Taron’s voice takes Richard by surprise, and the affectionate nickname sparks a glimpse of hope in his heart.

“Yes, darling?” Richard gets back, way too keen.

“You can come in now.”

Richard is on his feet, the door opens wide, and Taron is in his arms in a heartbeat—and _fuck_, everything’s alright again. Maybe. Maybe it’s not. Richard is a champion for overthinking the worst possibilities, after all. Should win fucking _medals_ for it, really.

“My sweet boy…” Richard is saying, then, desperately swatting a metaphorical cricket bat at all the dark thoughts that are clouding his mind, as he’s caressing Taron’s hair and planting soft kisses on his right temple. “I’m so sorry, love.”

Taron squeezes him a little tighter still, and sighs, loudly. “No no no, Rich, _I _am sorry. I don’t know what that was, back there.”

Richard inhales his scent deeply, and he just holds him. And then, for some reason, his mind flies up and away to a line he heard on telly once, and he’s surprised to find his heart hurts a tad when he realises it’s from one of those many emotional exchanges between Peter Capaldi and (once) his Jenna.

_Never trust a hug—it’s just a way to hide your face._

He makes a point of breaking said embrace, then, and cups Taron’s head into his hands. “Don’t ye, really? You know you can tell me everything. You’re my golden boy, I can’t handle seeing you shine any less bright than your usual standards,” Richard says, affectionately, and Taron blushes a deep shade of crimson, and his eyes are glistening with tears, now. Taron firmly shakes his head and bites down on his lower lip before he pulls Richard in for a kiss that is as hungry as it is angry and sad, and Taron is promptly sobbing into it, and Richard’s hands are back around him, holding him tight as they can manage. Richard walks them backwards a few steps and he’s relieved when his shins find the seat of the red chair, because he can finally sit down, then, and pull Taron in with him.

It takes a few minutes of Richard gently stroking Taron’s hair and cheek and dropping the lightest kisses on his forehead for Taron to calm down. As soon as Richard has made sure the man’s not shaking anymore, he gently lifts his chin up with two fingers and looks for eye contact.

“I’m here, love,” he says, reassuringly. “Please, talk to me.”

“Don’t really feel like _talking_, Richard,” Taron declares. Something seems to have switched in him—he’s suddenly shifting around in Richard’s lap, and he manages to straddle him. Richard’s hands instinctively find Taron’s hips, grabbing him, protective but light and controlled. He still doesn’t quite know where this is going, although the way Taron is now slightly frantically unbuttoning his purple shirt is definitely giving him an inkling.

“T…” Richard begins, and his hands automatically shoot to Taron’s now exposed chest, and he feels the man’s heart is beating unreasonably fast, matching the pace of his own.

“Please, Richard, I need you,” Taron sighs, and his lips are crushing on Richard’s again, and he’s hard and impossibly hot against Richard’s chest, and there’s a brief moment where Richard doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He quickly comes to his senses, though, and resolves that he definitely can and _wants_ to be there for Taron. Give him what he needs. Make him feel safe, loved, and cherished. There will be time to talk later.

He plants his feet on the floor and gets up from the chair, his arms wrapped around Taron, quite proud of how effortless it’s become to pick him up. Taron’s thighs are clutched around Richard’s pelvis, and it’s familiar and warm and only just slightly _unbearable_. Richard is determined not to reduce this to a simple senseless fuck, and he knows he will if he lets Taron rut against him just once more, so he delicately presses Taron against the closest vertical surface he can find and lets him down, all the while making a point of pinning Taron’s arms against the wall, because Richard really needs to take control right now.

Taron whimpers and writhes against his touch and strains his neck towards him, desperately looking for his lips. Richard leans in and feels him melt, his sighs full of longing and a touch of sadness still. Which promptly brings his mind back to the fact he’s absolutely not letting the man get away with not having a conversation about his reaction to their harsh scene. Miscommunication, secrets and overall frustration are definitely not what Richard wants their friendship—heck, he can afford to say it, _relationship_—to be based on. After a few seconds of reflecting over this, he decides to speak between the deep, wet kisses they’re exchanging. “Talk… later… though… Promise?”

“Hmm-hmm…” Taron nods, in-between moans. “Wha’ever you say, love.”

Richard decides this is enough for now, because he doesn’t want to “kill the mood”—plus he’s sure he won’t get anything more before Taron is completely relaxed and content, which he has made his mission to achieve. He hums contentedly against Taron’s neck, nibbling at it, feeling Taron’s hands in his hair, pulling him close. Richard is, indeed, positively revelling in every sound and scattered syllable coming from Taron’s mouth. Despite the not-quite-ideal context, he’s a sucker for how quickly Taron seems to lose control around him, and the fact that this is reciprocal only makes it better. Just as he’s thinking that, Taron actually manages to get a full word out, and the word is _bedroom_, and Richard really couldn’t agree more.

The following hour goes by in a flash of Richard _worshipping_ Taron’s body. He starts by getting them both naked and lying Taron down on the bed, kissing every bit of skin his mouth can reach, comfortably or not, and Taron squirms against his touch, bucking his hips into thin air and complaining about Richard’s stubble—Richard keeps at it, anyways, because he recalls a drunken spell during which Taron admitted that getting scratched by Richard’s beard revs him up beyond belief. Which is part of the reason why, if he can help it, Richard barely even looks at his electric razor, when they have a couple of days off—and what a shame it is that John bloody Reid is actually clean-shaven, otherwise filming that sex scene would have been a thousand times better, if such a thing were at all possible.

Then Richard’s mouth closes around Taron’s cock, and every time he does this is like the first—the taste, the feel, the sight, the scent of him truly are a thing of beauty. What is even more gorgeous are the _noises_ Richard’s swirling tongue and bobbing head get out of Taron’s pretty mouth. Richard really hopes all this moaning and yelping into a pillow is not creating a strain on the man’s vocal chords, otherwise Dexter definitely _will_ demand Richard’s balls in compensation for inappropriately wrecking their favourite Welsh sweetheart. Plus, that is really not the point, today. The point is to make him _feel_ _good_, whatever it may take.

Which is why Richard resolves to flip Taron around and prepare him a little differently, this time. It’s something they’ve yet to experiment with, and something he’s been wanting to try out ever since he had the chance to properly lay his eyes on Taron’s perfect rear, back on the first day of shooting, when he was wearing those extremely revealing white dungarees. Now, however, what Richard is after is pressing each and every possible button, showering his precious man with attentions, flooding Taron’s body and mind with nothing but _pleasure_. Keeping Taron’s confession in mind, Richard is determined to give Taron a taste of what stubble rash between his perky cheeks feels like, and he couples this sweet torture with some swift and expert fingering action, which makes Taron positively beg for mercy by the time sixty seconds are up.

“Oh, _God_, Rich, stop, please, I want you inside me now, I _need_ you…” Taron murmurs, surprisingly clear and bossy, against the sheets, his hips looking for friction against the cushion that is propping his arse up. Richard groans appreciatively against the soft skin of Taron’s bum and flicks his tongue against the overstimulated rim of muscle a few more times, for good measure. The torment indeed does need to come to an end, though, because Taron isn’t really supposed to be begging like this—he’s owed what Richard hopes will be one of the best deep lovemaking of his life, and his every wish needs to be fulfilled. Richard slicks his length up with an abundant amount of lube, aligns the tip with Taron’s entrance and leans forward, hovering over Taron’s back and whispering, _growling_ directly into his ear, in a way he knows Taron can never resist.

“This wha’ you want, love?”

He watches as Taron shuts his eyes, nods manically, and reaches his arm out behind his head to grab Richard’s hair, and he’s pulling now, and Richard’s already lost count of the amount of times Taron has said _fuck me_ in the span of the ten, long, excruciating seconds he’s been just resting against the poor man’s hole, so he obliges and pushes a little further in.

“I’m gonna make ye feel _so good_, my pretty boy…” Richard promises, and Taron bites down on the pillow beneath him to muffle a loud whine, and he pulls at Richard’s hair harder, unable to voice any coherent thoughts, and Richard chuckles against his earlobe as he slides in slowly and completely, and, _God_, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of this. Especially since Taron suggested they both got tested and came out clean, because of course this means Richard is absolutely not wearing a condom, and he’s feeling Taron fully and completely around him, and it’s simply _sublime._

The pace Richard sets is impossibly slow, and his thrusts are deep and deliberate, and Taron’s back strains in the effort of getting Richard closer. The way his hips push against Richard every single time to let him get deeper is threatening to crumple Richard’s sanity up into a ball and throw it directly in a roaring fireplace. However, he somehow manages to mentally slap himself in the face and regain control of his wits. He needs to stay focused—this is all about _Taron_. He angles himself better and immediately knows he’s made it. Triumphantly, he increases his pace, just a tad, so that he’s getting deeper with every thrust, and hitting the sweet spot inside Taron over and over and over. Taron is bucking his hips against Richard even more frantically now, and he’s getting louder by the minute, and he’s still pulling on Richard’s hair, and it’s just _a lot_ to take in.

Richard has no idea how long they’re at it before Taron is able to form what resembles a coherent sentence.

“Please, Rich, _harder_…” Taron begs, and tears are rolling off his eyes again, now—but this is nothing new, really, just a very plain clue that Taron is _close_, unbearably so, and Richard decides to indulge him one more time by fucking hard and strong into the delicious warmth three, four, six times, groaning in Taron’s ear as he hears the wet, slapping noises, and Taron is moaning louder now, and his whole body is shaking, and his back is arched into Richard’s touch and they’re kissing over Taron’s shoulder, and the angle is awkward but oh so erotic, and Richard is losing his goddamned mind, really.

Almost as soon as Richard reaches his hand beneath Taron’s body to stroke the man’s painfully hard cock, he feels him come, coating his hand completely and crying out what sounds like _fuck fuck fuck, Richard, God, yes, I love you_, which sends Richard over the edge. He grips at Taron’s hips and he, too, is hit by an internal earthquake, and he sees sparks behind his closed eyes, and he’s spilling hot and white inside Taron, filling him up completely.

“Talk to me, golden boy,” Richard finally gets to say. They’re both spent—Richard’s lying on his side, his chest rising and falling, caressing Taron’s head, planting soft kisses on his temple. It’s only been ten minutes since possibly the best lovemaking session they’ve ever had. Not very long at all, but the longest Richard has managed to wait. Taron is still panting hard, and he’s leaning into Richard’s touch, and he’s shaking his head.

“It’s nothing, Dickie, really.” God knows Taron is hard-headed, but this is quite frankly starting to get ridiculous.

“You know I won’t let it go, do ye, Duckie?”

“Certainly seems unlikely, dunnit,” Taron replies, and he exhales, fake-annoyed, and he pulls Richard in for a kiss. The air still smells of sex, and Richard can tell Taron is still trying to distract him—but he doesn’t actually seem to be done talking. “Thought the deep dicking would distract you, but can anyone stop PS Budd while he’s on a mission, really?” Taron says this and _smirks_, and Richard rolls his eyes at him, and closes his lips on Aberystwyth’s finest once more, for good measure.

“Hey, they _wrote _me like that. Don’t make me regret my artistic choices, love,” Richard says, and he can’t help but put on his best impression of himself as David, all stern and troubled, his jaw clenched in an impossible smoulder.

“Never, Madden. Plus, David really has nothing on you. Your hair looks so _much_ better in real life. Like, so much better,” Taron coos, and his hand is suddenly caressing said hair, and he’s targeting Richard’s once cross turned absolute fucking pride and joy—the grey streak on the front of his quiff. “My silver fox.”

His _what_, now?

“Oi, cut it, dick’ead,” Richard admonishes him, and he starts laughing immediately after, and then he stops abruptly, because he can’t believe Taron’s just done it again.

“Taron?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Talk. Now,” and his brogue is so strong on the last monosyllable, as it always is when he says it—_noo_. Richard likes to make himself believe that Taron actually enjoys his accent, although he’s never explicitly said anything.

“Oh, _alright_, fine. _Jesus_, Richard, you are immovable, aren’t you?” Taron replies, defeated. “Should’a known, really. Relentless in the sheets, rel—”

“Cut it, T. Spit it out. Or I’ll leave this bed _immediately_.”

“Oh, no, Rich, pleeeeeease, don’t leave me here alone!” Taron fake-begs, his lower lip jutting out, his eyes suddenly glazed with tears that Richard suspects are still left over from before.

Richard just stops stroking Taron’s hair and stares at him. It’s almost heartbreaking when Taron’s mask falls, all of a sudden, and tears are indeed pooling back in his eyes.

“Okay. Yes, I... I might have a problem with verbal abuse,” Taron says, in a feeble tone. “My parents used to argue a lot when I was young. A bloody toll _that_ took on me Mam. Thank fuck that monster left us before he got the chance to do anymore harm,” Taron breathes for a second, and he seems surprised he’s not actually crying. “I have hated confrontation ever since. Hence, having to do _this_, with _you_, right now, is kinda killing me.” The honesty and pureness of Taron’s confession hit Richard square in the gut, and he’s about to reply, but Taron still needs to add something. “I guess I’m just scared this is what _we_’re going to turn into. Y’know. Could happen. Jealousy is a bitch, sometimes.”

Richard doesn’t quite know what to say for a few seconds, caught in-between startled and outraged. Then he takes a hold of himself and speaks.

“Taron. I’m so sorry if I somehow gave you the impression that this could _ever_ happen to us. Sorta makes me wonder what kind of person y’think I am? But—no, please, let me finish,” Richard is quick to say, because he sees Taron is on the verge of butting in—and he’s absolutely not done. “But let me say something, Duckie. I love you. So much. I love you when ye sing in the shower, I love you first thing in the morning and late at night—heck, I love you in that fuckin’ ridiculous _chicken costume_, too. I love the absolute chaos that is your heart, because I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Richard briefly ponders whether he should add he also loves the _pilgrim soul_ in Taron, as well as the _sorrow of his changing face_—but decides that it might be slightly redundant, because he’s already been surprisingly eloquent for one bloody time in his life, and Taron is already tearing up again, anyways. “And let me tell you, plain and simple—I love how much you love Jamie. And nothing or no-one can ever change that. I swear it on my life.”

“Oh, _Richard_…” Taron babbles, and he’s a weeping mess in the crook of Richard’s neck, _again_, but this time it’s the good kind of tears. Richard more _feels_ rather than hears Taron’s soft _I love you so fucking much_ against his skin, and he holds him a little tighter still, completely content.

** _Part II – For all our mutual experience, our separate conclusions are the same_ **

_Thursday night, next week_

“Mate, so good to see ye!”

Jamie pulls him into a tight hug. The first thing Richard can’t help but notice is that the man smells _heavenly_. That registers very quickly, and it feels kind of weird. And yeah, the hug lasts a tad too long, but Richard just doesn’t feel like breaking it up.

“You too, Rich. Been a while since I dragged my sorry arse out for one of these, eh? I’ve turned into me granddad, lately,” Jamie says, into the hug. When they part, Richard can feel the warmth radiating from the man’s wide grin.

“Not like I’m much younger than you, am I?” Richard sympathises, running a hand through his hair—the silver locks feeling suddenly thicker between his fingers, more present than ever. Every day he looks into the mirror, he can’t help but notice how he seems to be straying further and further away from the heartthrob King in the North ideal—the one that made him famous. Give it five more years, the silver will have taken over, and his wrinkles will not be labelled _cute_ or _endearing_. Most of the time, this awareness automatically leads to him being absolutely positive that, when that eventually happens, no-one will want to cast him anymore, ever—looks are all he seems to have, after all, even if he does struggle to believe people when they tell him he’s handsome. He’s getting old, and it’s fucking terrifying. God, he really should stop smoking, shouldn’t he?

“It’s this bloody movie, I’m telling ya,” Jamie replies, patting on Richard’s shoulder amicably. Somehow, that feels like a gigantic metaphor—one that should probably be taken to mean, _It’s all Taron, isn’t it?_ Richard feels Jamie silently agreeing. “Shall we?”

“After you, old man.”

Jamie gives him one of those _wicked_ grins. “Watch it, Dickie.”

They stroll into the dimly lit pub, and it’s surprisingly empty for eight o’clock on a Thursday. A quick scan through all visible tables confirms Richard’s doubt—God, where _is_ everyone else?

“Can you bloody believe these people? Even _Dex_ flaked on us. I dig myself out of my hole for the first time this month, and no-one bothers to show up?” Jamie sounds as baffled as he looks. Richard looks at him, expecting to see annoyance on his face… except there is none. Bemusement? Disbelief? A bit of both, maybe. But, most of all—Richard can see it surprisingly clearly—Jamie looks _pleased_.

“Hardly a hole, that penthouse o’ yers, is it, now?” Richard teases.

“Oh, God, not you too,” Jamie says, sounding exasperated. “Will you and T _ever_ stop going on about my place?”

“Invite me over one day and I might?” Richard asks, hoping he doesn’t sound as hopeful as he thinks he just has. Good grief. This is supposed to be a night out with a castmate, yet it’s starting to feel like an awkward first date, for some reason. To be fair, it was supposed to be _castmates_, plural, but God knows where everyone is tonight.

Bottom line is, no-one told Richard he would be having to sit across from Jamie Bell and Jamie Bell only—and right now he kind of really wishes he’d gotten the memo, thank you very much.

Ah, _Jamie_. Gorgeous, accented Jamie Bell. Wearing the ridiculously tight distressed grey jeans, the stupid leather jacket that makes him look like a 50’s greaser boy (and which makes Richard wonder where he might have parked his bike), and that bloody _smile_ on his face that warms the area around him for a good five feet radius. The man just emanates positive vibes and confidence—and _sex_. Yeah, no wonder Taron’s in love with him, really, huh?

But hey, the silence has started to resonate in Richard’s ears. Quick, say something else, before Jamie notices this is weird. “Actually, scratch that. I saw _pictures_, J. Convinced that actually coming over might take the teasing to a whole new level.” Richard’s confidence seems to come up for air from where it’s drowning in the pitch-black sea of anxiety, and it suddenly feels right to _wink_ at Jamie. The grin on the man’s face widens a tad more still, and Richard allows himself to breathe.

They order two pints—this pub has fucking _Tennent’s_ on tap, and Richard’s Glaswegian heart is singing—and they sit down at a small table near the exit to the beer garden. The appearance of his favourite piss-up material from his teenage years has somehow meant that Richard’s got to switch the conversation to the anecdote around the one time he visited Wellpark Brewery in high school. That involved him and two of his mates managing to steal a whole case of the stuff (to this day Richard’s not quite sure _how_, exactly, if he’s honest), ditching the rest of the class, hiding in the bushes behind the factory, and then getting completely fucking wasted on Scotch Ale at 3 P.M. on a Tuesday. May or may not have been sick in said bushes, too. For several hours. Until he got home, and Pat forced _haggis_ on him for dinner. Yeah, those were the days, indeed.

Jamie seems to love the story—laughs his heart out when Richard’s done, and takes a generous swig of his beer.

“I mean, could have been worse, eh?” he chuckles. “Could have been gin. Believe me, you don’t want to hear _that _story.”

Ah, not the gin story, then—not tonight. _Damn_. Richard knows for a fact that it must be a good one, since Taron simply won’t let him have it. Richard _needs_ to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, the man insists. Infuriating, really. But what else is new.

Richard is half-tempted to open his mouth and explicitly _demand_ the gin story—but right then Jamie starts talking again. He ends up delivering a hilarious anecdote around an outing involving county Durham’s sixteen-year-old resident tap-dancer, his best mate, the girl they were both after at the time, Smirnoff Ice, and one spliff too many. Richard can picture this all in his head way too easily. _Damn_, Jamie’s teenage years sound so much like Richard’s own.

“The North’s just rough, mate,” Richard says, appreciative, smiling against the rim of his pint glass as he’s emptying it. Fuck, that went down fast.

“Damn right,” Jamie agrees, as his fingers trace the side of his own glass, picking up a few droplets of condensation left there. Richard watches, entranced, for a split-second. “Cheers to showbiz and high-class living, really,” Jamie concludes, raising his now empty glass—sarcastic as a man can sound. Christ, this man just _gets_ it, doesn’t he?

“Cheers to buying a house just ‘cause you’re told you ‘ave to. And cheers to a panoramic view on Canary bloody Wharf, eh?” How daring of Richard. Really not sure where _this_ all’s coming from. The banter, the teasing, the drinking—it all just feels so _natural_. Why haven’t they ever done this before?

“Not _that _again!” Jamie exclaims, shaking his head. “Ah, well. Serves me right for embracing the pretentious side of me, I guess,” he ultimately concedes. “Been working for twenty bloody years, though, ‘aven’t I? I felt like I deserved it.”

This touches Richard more deeply than he’d anticipated it would. Fuck, if he doesn’t know what _that_ feels like.

“No need to tell _you_ that, though, eh?” Jamie comes in again, winking fleetingly, and immediately reverting to holding Richard in place by locking eyes with him.

Richard hears himself sigh out loud. “Yup,” he replies, not sure of what else he could add. He’s at a loss for words, but somehow this awareness doesn’t make it awkward in the slightest, between Jamie and him. Kind of feels like the grey eyes in front of Richard are scrutinising his soul, right now, and that he doesn’t _have_ to say anything else.

“Another?” Jamie offers, picking his glass up and shaking it lightly. “My round?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

“Don’t go anywhere.”

Jamie is off somewhere in the less-thick-than-usual web of people standing and chattering around the bar, and Richard is left alone at the table. His phone vibrates for what probably is the sixth time in the past fifteen minutes. He’s ignored the first five—too enthralled with Jamie to give a toss, really. Now Jamie’s not here, however, it might be the time to have a quick check.

It’s not a secret that Richard _despises_ the bloody thing—even on his best days. Nevertheless, seeing Taron’s name appear on the screen makes it all better in a heartbeat. Like it always does, really.

(8:11 P.M.) **Miss you, lover. Hope you peeps are having fun.**

(8:14 P.M.) **Bryce just texted. She not around either, then?**

(8:14 P.M.) **Wait, only you and Billy Elliot then, is it?**

(8:20 P.M.) **Alrighty, then. Don’t mind me, love. Enjoy your evening. Very jealous. Send me a pic when you get the chance? Bet you both look damn fine.**

(8:23 P.M.) **Wish I was there. Stupid cold got me completely fucking K.O. Not twenty-one anymore, am I? Dang shame, too.**

(8:24 P.M.) **I love you so fucking much. Y’know that, right?**

Richard’s smile has gotten progressively wider as he was scrolling through the messages—and it’s gotten to the point where his cheeks now positively hurt. He suspects he might be beaming a bit too obviously, because Jamie has a quizzical look painted on his face as he hands Richard his second pint and sits back down.

“Cat videos or Taron?”

He knows, doesn’t he.

“Taron,” Richard admits, feeling himself blush furiously.

“Thought so. Got the kitchen selfie, then?”

“Wait, what? There’s a kitchen selfie?”

Jamie’s wicked grin is back in full force. “Hold on, let me show ya.” He fishes his phone out from the pocket of his leather number, and it lights up as it recognises him. Richard observes as Jamie scrolls through his texts. “Oh, no, wait. He just said, “don’t show this to Richard”. My bad, Dickie, gonna 'ave to wait for this one. It’s _so_ good, mate, you won’t believe your bloody eyes.”

For a moment, Richard wonders whether Taron might have actually gone out and snatched the damned _Troubadour_ sign they both love so much. A neon-blue reminder of Elton’s breakthrough gig in America, and also of their first day on set. Then again Dex had looked _adamant_, the third time Taron had asked. Not a chance he managed to talk him into that one—no matter how persuasive Golden Boy is known to be. No bloody way.

No, this is probably just Taron impersonating Jamie Oliver and cooking up some concoction from one of the man’s books. The words _naked chef_ suddenly come to mind, and Richard needs to swat them away instantly. _Focus_, Richard, c’mon.

“Fucking tease ye are, James,” is all that comes out.

“Not my call, sugar,” Jamie replies. Wink. Cheeky. Impossibly so. “You should know it as well as I do, really. We’re under the same spell, after all, aren’t we?”

There it is. The Welsh elephant in the room is addressed. Is this a conversation they’re having, right now? Oh, God, Richard is definitely not ready for this. The smirk Jamie is serving right now is also _a lot_, if Richard’s honest. It feels like Jamie is talking, yet no words are being uttered. It’s like a deep emotional connection has just been established, powerful and strong. What in the _world_ is happening?

“That we are,” Richard concedes. He’s feeling _seen_ again, and it’s _new_, and he doesn’t know how that makes him feel, yet. How he wishes Taron was here with them.

“Hot in ‘ere, innit?” Jamie asks, blessing Richard with a slight change of subject—and thank God for that, really. He pinches the front of his T-shirt and lifts it off from where it’s slightly sticking to his body, trying to create some air on his chest. “Thought we were supposed to be in _October_? Bloody climate change, eh?”

“Autumn just doesn’t seem to want to show, this year,” Richard agrees, feeling flustered in turn. Hyperaware of those fingers gripping the dark cotton of the skin-tight tee. Thinking about how those fingers would feel like on him… _Get a fucking grip_. “To be fair you _are_ still wearing a jacket, J,” Richard points out, feeling hopeful all of a sudden. Maybe Jamie could just…

“Ah, yeah. Blame that on desperately tryin’ to avoid catching a bloody cold. My immune system decided to fuck right off approximately two years ago, apparently. But I guess you’re right. This thing’s not helping at all.”

Like that, Jamie is leaning over the table to try and wiggle out of his jacket. The table is round and tiny, there’s not much room at all—and Jamie is very, _very_ close, for a second, the _smell_ of him overwhelming Richard all over again—and then the jacket is off, and… yeah, the T-shirt is definitely as tight as it looked. Hugging every curve of him. The bit where his neck muscles cut into those perfect, round shoulders. Also, his arms—oh,_ Christ_, his arms. Did Michelangelo pitch in, when God made Jamie Bell? And then of course there’s the way his collarbones bend the fabric outwards, and then his pecs help the whole thing get to Richard’s head even further—the man’s _exploding_ out of his top, for crying out loud. All Richard can think of at the moment is that he really wishes Julian would put Bernie in _way_ more revealing clothes, for the bits they have left to shoot. Not that he’d ever dare mention anything about it out loud—but he so wishes he could.

He wishes he was like Taron, sometimes. The man seems to always get what he wants—and Richard’s painfully aware of why that is. When Taron wants something, he either asks for it, or just makes it happen. It’s like magic, really, being outspoken about what one wants. Richard should definitely try that sometimes. And, actually, on a second thought—the bastard probably _did_ get the _Troubadour_ sign for his kitchen, didn’t he?

Anyways. Jamie Bell is out here looking tight as a bloody fitness model, right now, and Richard can’t seem to get the rest of his beer down quickly enough. He’s partially aware of how this might look, but for one second in his life he finds he doesn’t really care. His own jacket really needs to go too, by the way.

“_Thirsty_, are we?” Jamie rudely interrupts his train of thought. He says this while resting his elbow on the table and running a hand through his hair, and the way his bicep flexes as he does that… yeah, this is the definite knock-out moment for Richard. _Ding ding_, round one is over. He needs a fucking smoke, like, _yesterday_.

“Uh-huh. Sorry, I’ve had a day,” Richard lies. His day was perfectly fine. Normal. It’s the night that’s currently taking a bloody toll on him, really. Cigarette? _Please_?

“’sall good, Dickie,” Jamie replies, smiling—_caring_.

A few things happen at once, then. Jamie’s hand reaches out across the table and rests on Richard’s now unclothed forearm. It kind of burns, but that’s normal, isn’t it? Also, somehow, their knees are touching—they weren’t, ten seconds ago, but one of them must have shifted in their seat, then—and denim is on denim, and it’s scorching there, too. Finally, Jamie’s eyes. They’re smiling, but there’s also sadness, in there, somewhere. Heck, there’s a whole _life story_ written right in them, and Richard can see it so clearly, now—the skin-to-skin contact having just amped the tethering up to its maximum capacity—and it’s knocking the goddamned wind out of him.

As Richard goes through it all—the trials, constantly having to prove himself in auditions and then deal with the inevitable pang of rejection, the incessant bullying reserved to theatre kids (_sissy_, _poof_, _ballerina boy_, _dancing is for girls!_), the legacy of a cult movie to carry on your shoulders (Richard can only imagine what _that_ might feel like—never were any such roles for the fat kid, were they?)—the thought that the sudden silence and intense eye contact they established might make it weird between them doesn’t even begin to cross his mind. Jamie’s fingers are _lingering_ on Richard’s forearm, light as they can be, and they are oh-so-imperceptibly tracing small circles on his skin, and Richard can feel honest-to-God goosebumps creep up on it, electricity spreading from the spot Jamie’s touching all throughout his body. A powerful rush of blood to his face, and a second one to his lower abdomen, and… Yeah, this is _way_ too much. He definitely needs a breather.

“Mind if I pop out for a wee fag, J?”

Jamie’s fingers on Richard’s arm go rigid for a split-second, and his expression shifts slightly. He retracts his hand and rests it back on the table. His expression is quite unreadable.

“Not at all. Go on, darlin’. I’ll save our table,” Jamie replies, benevolent—but it’s painfully obvious that the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, for some reason.

“Cheers, mate. Be right back.”

Richard gets up and heads for the door. The night is chilly, but it’s pleasant enough that quite a few people are actually sitting down outside with their drinks. Shame, really, because Richard would really kill for some privacy, at the moment—but this’ll have to do, he guesses.

He lights the cigarette, takes a deep drag, and it seems to go straight to his head—the same head which is currently full of Jamie—way too quickly. He smokes so much, these days, he thought his body would have gotten used to the high. ‘parently not, then.

It’s finally time to close the doors of his mind and barricade himself in it. Except it’s a whole damn mess, in there, and Jamie’s voice is resonating in his ears, and his eyes are piercing him, and the suggestive touch of his fingers on Richard’s arm is spreading to the rest of his body, and… Oh, God, and what about _Taron_? How can he do this to Taron? Richard’s never really been the jealous type, not really—so it’s never been a problem for him that the person he’s with be attracted to other people. But, damn, it feels so _wrong _to actually be the one lusting over another man, when Richard already has everything he needs right next to him. When he loves Taron with every fibre of his being, and Taron loves him back every bit as fiercely. He shouldn’t need anything else. He shouldn’t look for anyone else. And yet, here he is, on a weirdly warm October night, wondering how it would feel to press his naked body against Jamie’s.

On a second thought, though, if anyone knows anything about being hot and bothered for Jamie Bell, that is indeed Taron. Plus, Richard is now absolutely positive he will not be able to make sense of this whole thing on his own—he _definitely_ needs Taron’s insight. He picks his phone up from his pocket, then, and opens his message app once again. Taron’s last few texts are still unanswered—how rude of Richard. He taps out his replies.

(8:47 P.M.) _I love you too, sweetheart. So so much._

(8:48 P.M.) _Sorry I’m replying so late. This man is a lot._

Taron must have his phone close, because his reply comes in quicker than Richard had anticipated.

(8:48 P.M.) **Oh? Good or bad, d’you mean?**

Richard smiles down at his phone as he types.

(8:49 P.M.) _Good. I think? Very confused._

Another drag. Another high. Another text from Taron.

(8:50 P.M.) **Looking forward to talking about this in depth. Also, please reassure the poor lad? He just told me you went for what looked like a very urgent cigarette…**

Damn. Not what Richard was aiming for in the slightest. He should have invited Jamie out with him, shouldn’t he?

He starts pacing around a few square feet of the extremely kitsch fake grass this pub has as a floor for their beer garden—debating whether to call Taron up and actually ask for help out loud, or simply toss his smoke and go back inside. Back into the grey unknown of Jamie’s eyes. Back to feeling seen and exposed. Back to potentially building something new.

As it turns out, though, he doesn’t get to decide on this one. As Richard turns to face the door again, there Jamie comes—rushed, almost as if he’s running away from someone. He’s also grinning like a madman, though, and he’s clutching two small and thick-looking glasses, one in each hand. _Shots_?

“Fucking hell,” he exclaims, as soon as he’s within Richard's earshot. “What’s the _matta_ with these people?”

“Wha’ happened, J?” Richard asks, puzzled.

“Swear down, I was just low-key mobbed by the biggest bloke I’ve ever seen, just ‘cos I was sitting alone at the table and he and his chavvy girlfriend absolutely wanted our spot. I tried to argue for like ten seconds, but I expect Dex will give me a hard time if I ever show up on set with a black eye, so… here I am. Sorry to interrupt,” Jamie says it all in one breath, then proceeds to raise the two shot glasses in front of his face. “Vodka?”

“Honestly, James,” Richard grins, reaching out a hand to accept the shot. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you almost get beaten up.”

And, like that, it’s back to light banter. _Easy_. Mates. Richard can do _mates_.

Jamie rolls his eyes and chuckles earnestly. “Hey, thought you were supposed to protect people for a living?”

Oh, of course. Damn David Budd. He should have known this was coming.

“Predictable, but _touché_ all the same. Watched it, then?”

“Sure ‘ave. No idea why I ‘aven’t mentioned anything about it. Anyways. Loved every second of it,” Jamie says, and he sounds genuinely impressed. “Although would you hate me if I said that the adjoining rooms business was cheesy as all hell?”

“Not at all. Jed’s a genius, but that definitely was a cheap plot device,” Richard agrees, looking down and shaking his head as he snickers. “Glad you liked it, though. Fucked me up pretty good, not gonna lie.”

“Oh, no shit it would have. Can’t even begin to imagine how you made it through.”

“Says the man who got shoved head-first into child stardom, worked with Peter Jackson and Spielberg—and even fucking Lars Von Trier, for Christ’s sake—and still lives to tell the tale? Sod off, Jamie. You’re my absolute hero.”

“Oh, God, Rich,” Jamie replies, and if it wasn’t so dark outside, Richard would be sure the man’s blushing. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Only appropriate thing I can think of right now is _cheers_. Cheers to Jamie Bell having survived it all,” Richard says, raising his glass.

“Alright, alright. Cheers, sugar. Right back at ya.”

They clink glasses and take the shot. The vodka is Grey Goose—Richard’s favourite—and it burns as it makes its way down his throat. The cigarette he’s still clutching in his left hand is nothing more than a butt, by now, so he takes a few steps towards a table and presses it into the nearest ashtray.

“May I bum you one, Dickie?” Jamie says to Richard’s turned back.

Richard spins round and raises an eyebrow at the man. Really wasn’t expecting such a request.

“Never knew you smoked, James,” Richard says, one side of his face curling up into a grin. His packet of smokes is out and open for Jamie in no time. “Knock yourself out, darling.”

Jamie takes a cigarette and lights it. “Ta, Rich. Needed this, for some reason.” Richard can’t help but wholeheartedly agree—silently, of course. He also momentarily goes back to lusting over the man, because dammit, Jamie looks _so good_ while he smokes. In hindsight, it probably was a bad fucking idea to agree to this. 

Apropos—because his thoughts are running a hundred miles an hour, apparently—the image of another stupidly attractive man smoking crosses Richard’s mind. The occasion is golden, so he doesn’t hold back.

“Can I ask you something, Jamie?”

“This still about you being all up in my IMDB history?” Jamie asks, amused, as he takes a generous drag off his cigarette. 

“You see right through me,” Richard admits.

“Go on, then. Let’s 'ave it.” The wicked grin is back in full force, now, and it’s a lot to just go on talking.

“Is Cillian as handsome in real life as he looks on telly?”

Jamie’s eyes widen for a second, and then he actually bites down on his lower lip.

“Oh, Rich. You have _no idea_. It’s _embarrassing_.”

The rest of the night, they spend outside. They drink and they smoke, and Jamie tells Richard all about Cillian and James McAvoy and Chris Evans, gushes over Tintin and how great it was to play the role (the story of Jamie and Daniel Craig in ridiculous motion-capture leotards is simply _superb_), and then of course there’s mention of dancing, and how much Jamie would love to play a Fred Astaire-type character—and Richard knows how good the man still is at it from Taron’s tale of their night out at Gigi’s Bar, and he can’t help but imagine how mesmerising that would look like on the big screen.

And then it’s Jamie’s turn to ask questions, and it’s all a whirlwind from Robb to Prince Kit to Cosimo, and _how is working with Eddie Redmayne?_ (the bloke is amazing, by the way—truly and completely so), and Alan Rickman, and Richard’s very first Venice Film Festival, which inevitably turns into them anticipating how nervous they will all be when the goddamned musical fantasy of Elton John’s life will premiere at bloody _Cannes_.

As the alcohol keeps flowing, and nerves are progressively melted down to nothingness, _Taron_ starts popping up, unannounced, in both men’s speech. The resplendent, golden hue that warms up their lives. The whole reason behind them all meeting in the first place. The object of their respective desires, and the one they both seem to love most in the world.

There’s no bitterness or jealousy, in their talk over the man. It’s surprising at first—Richard would have thought that some of it might come up, what with himself being fiercely possessive of anyone he’s ever loved (and it obviously being no different when it comes to Taron), and Jamie distinctly sounding like he’s exactly the same. None of that seems to seep through, though. The two hours they spend talking back and forth about Taron don’t feel weird or difficult whatsoever.

Maybe it’s the tipsiness, maybe it’s the overindulgence of nicotine, maybe it’s the fact that Richard’s out with a drop-dead handsome man who also happens to be intelligent and cultivated and just _cares_ so much about the people around him—whatever it is, Richard concludes that the absence of competition between them actually makes a lot of sense. So what if they’re both in love with the same man? Traditional love stories are for weak people—and Richard Madden and Jamie Bell most definitely are _not_ weak men.

Hugging goodbye at the end of the night feels wrong, but they have set in the morning and they’re not twenty anymore, so sleep definitely has to be on the menu.

“Please, let’s do this again,” Jamie says, into the hug. “Very soon.”

“Right on, mate,” Richard replies, taking Jamie’s scent in one last time. His head is heavy again—blame it on the lager and the few shots of stronger spirits—but his stomach is extremely light—blame it on the goddamned butterflies that, for once in his life, are not a synonym for anxiety.

The way Jamie looks at Richard when they part is, well, _something_. Richard has had men look at him like this before, and almost every single time he’s woken up the next morning and found himself inspecting the spines of the books beside their beds. Tonight, though, it’s different. As much as Richard wants him to, he knows Jamie won’t ask him back to his flat. He wouldn’t risk it—not right now, not on a whim, not unless they’re both absolutely positive that it could work out.

A promise for more, though, is definitely there.

And it’s enough for now.

Enough.

_For now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are by Dermot Kennedy, who published this [album](https://open.spotify.com/album/7jGNAMzrW5HMXdxl9XyBMG?si=M3RTq6IBRoivTAS187iRHw) lately and completely wrecked me for a good few nights, and, of course, Billy Joel. This [song](https://open.spotify.com/track/4850v7DuT7raVYAWc1ODPv?si=2D_rxZv0S0-povU84DjZQw) is Jamie and Richard in a nutshell—I won’t hear anything about it, really.
> 
> Yes, Madderton smut happened. You’re all very welcome. Also, Richard is sappy lad. And he does love his W.B. Yeats. What can I say. Prince _bloody_ Charming, right there.
> 
> And yes, Richard and Jamie basically just went on an impromptu _date_. Again, no idea how that came to be. Or maybe I do. Who knows? You’ll have to watch this space to discover where this is going.
> 
> Re: Jamie Bell, I think you all need to watch this [interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VA_l-9jdOoA)—daddy issues, Daniel Craig, Tintin, and tap-dancing are all mentioned, and it’s _great_—and this [one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-knPNmBTKdA&t=165s), too—because I’ll forever be weak for fourteen-year-old Jamie, cocky and accented as ever. My favourite boy.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the new dynamic. I am positively revelling in it, that’s for fucking sure.
> 
> Next week it’s Jamie’s turn again, by the way. Yeah, he definitely is sneaking his way through my pages more and more—I guess this story is mostly about him, by this point, isn’t it?
> 
> Ah, well. I’m rambling again.
> 
> I love you all a lot. See you next week.
> 
> C x


	9. 9. Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Taron is a lot more like Elton than anyone would have thought.
> 
> And where Jamie gets to be a lot more like Bernie than he ever would have hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people.
> 
> After a week spent listening to Taron read Elton’s words—and getting particularly flustered when hearing him utter the words _darling, he spins around on my dick_ in the absolute campest accent _ever_ (please hear for yourselves if you don’t believe this is an _actual_ [thing](https://applesfallingfromblondehair.tumblr.com/post/188423620321) that _actually_ happened in the world, lately)—here I am again, and I bring with me the gift (gift?) of another slice of our favourite boys’ lives during the making of our favourite movie of 2019—and, possibly, of all time.
> 
> As usual, I have to thank [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=) for a great beta work—which they managed to deliver even despite huge technical difficulties (you’re an absolute _star_, darling), and on a time crunch (but then again, what else is new, these days?). And, on top of everything, they brought about some _great_ bits and bobs of precious insight. Bless. You.
> 
> This chapter is completely, entirely, one-hundred-percent Jamie Bell’s own fault. He just goes out and _says_ the stuff you’ll find quoted at the beginning of Part I. Out loud. In interviews. To actual, real people. And these interviews then go on the internet. And I find them. And I need to voice my feelings about them. If you don’t believe the extent of the damage to my poor shipper's heart, then please, figure [this one](https://youtu.be/ecaspf8-i10%20rel=) out for yourselves as well.
> 
> By the way, this whole thing you’re about to read happens the day after Richard and Jamie’s… date? No, no, not a date. A _solo outing_ would be more accurate.
> 
> Anyways. Jamie has figured a lot of things out. Taron is a very emotional boi. Richard floats in the air between them.
> 
> Let’s get started, shall we?

** _Part I - I’ll be by the Batphone, if you need to get a hold_ **

_“I really wanted to just be there for him, much like Bernie as well in real life, I think they both needed each other at certain times in their lives, and I hope I was that person for Taron as well, for sure.”_

_“I said to Dexter, our director, in making [the movie], I said, if nothing else on this film, you know, in terms of what I can contribute, I just want to, like, be a support system for Taron, who I’m sure is under a lot of stress and a lot of pressure, and I just want to be a sounding board for him and just kind of—just be a fan, just be on the side lines and just cheer him on. […] It can be a very lonely, solitary experience, where you’re kind of performing in a vacuum a little bit, just hoping that you’re meeting the expectations of all these people. We get along great, we really do. We have a very loving relationship.”_ – Jamie

_Friday, after Jamie and Richard’s night out_

Jamie’s phone rings while he’s in the middle of drying his hair. Yes, by now there’s enough of it to justify _drying_ it—the ridiculous _Peaky_-looking haircut has grown out, and thank fuck for that, really. He looks in the mirror these days and actually _likes_ what he sees, which is wildly unusual. Except for the ears—he’ll always have a problem with the ears. But whatever. They can always tape them to his head to make them less visible, can’t they?

It’s barely 5 P.M., but he’s been done for the day for quite some time. Today was spent filming a lot of the scenes at Elton’s L.A. mansion—and, Jamie is sad to report, Bernie really isn’t in a lot of them. The whole shebang had entailed, in no particular order, a giant party, a lavish car, two smouldering hot birds, and some _outrageously tight_ clothes. When Julian handed the outfit to him first thing in the morning—_No, darling, keep the shirt open, yeah? C’mon, gonna need another button off! Good man, Jamie, perfect_—Jamie found himself wondering where exactly those tight white trousers and that fitted black shirt (open to the navel) had come from. Sure, Bernie’s outfits indeed are funky at times, but they’d never been that... _revealing_ before. Odd. Really odd. Thank God he’s been working out, eh?

The first part of the day practically flew by, in a flurry of doing his best at acting cocky and winning while getting out of an absolutely dreamy red convertible, only to go on feeling positively dwarfed by the two gorgeous _giraffes_ appearing on both sides of him—no, seriously, some of the longest legs he’s ever seen _and _6-inch heels on top of it, as if he wasn’t already 5’7”, for _fuck_’s sake—and strutting in like he owned the place, and greeting people (_no idea who he is, of course_), and grinning and grinning and grinning, and sipping fake champagne from glasses definitely not made out of crystal. Apart from his height complex, it was all pretty canny, actually.

And then, way too quickly, the fun bits were done, and it was time for the hard stuff. Jamie still hasn’t decided which scene was actually the worst one to go through—although the one where he had to bust into Elton’s room with the girls and face getting dismissed by a disgruntled Taron-as-Elton, because the man simply wasn’t in the state to receive anyone, at the moment, no, thank you—distinctly feels like a prime choice. While Jamie was busy delivering what he’d labelled (for the day, at least) as the _Bernie swagger_, he couldn’t help noticing that Taron was looking positively dishevelled. No, _destroyed_, actually—sprawled out on an armchair in the corner of the room, glass in his hand, dressing gown open, messy hair, a sardonic expression painted on his face. And, yeah— witnessing that was definitely harder for Jamie than he’d anticipated. Heck, Taron played _Miserable Bastard_ Elton so well. He was so fucking _believable_. Was there something more there than an incredible actor’s job? Jamie found himself wondering that so often, during the shoot, that it ultimately brought up the prickling need to break character and just go up and hug him tight and kiss him senseless and tell him it was going to be alright. Jamie did not, of course, do any of the aforementioned things—no-one (apart from Richard) knows about them, or at least he likes to kid himself that's the case. Although he did end up putting that one scene down on his mental list of Reasons Why Taron Egerton Deserves The 2020 Oscar. For future reference, you know.

When that scene was done, some shuffling around and moving everyone downstairs to the pool meant that it was time for the brief spell Jamie had to spend fussing around a very wet Elton John just having attempted suicide—lying down on a stretcher, mumbling incoherently, rolling his eyes into his skull (God, Taron was so_ fucking _good at that, too)—during which Richard also appeared on the other side and murmured _you self-indulgent prick_ through gritted teeth (and what a _delight_ John Reid always manages to be, really). And that scene was arguably way less emotionally charged, but _a lot_ nonetheless—something to do with the way Richard was looking at Jamie’s exposed chest just made him feel _exposed_, for some reason.

All in all, it only made sense that when—by 2 P.M.—Jamie was done shooting, he’d allowed himself to profoundly exhale in relief. Another day of work in the bag. _Phew_.

The moment of reassurance lasted approximately fifteen seconds, though, since, as Taron was being helped off his stretcher, he glanced in Jamie’s direction and mouthed the words _can we talk? _right before going for a costume change. An unmistakeable sense of dread had immediately dawned on Jamie, then—a sensation that ended up being impossible to shake, even when Taron finally emerged from the dressing room. The man was out of his pink dressing gown and into a blue one, his gold necklace had been swapped for an endless string of pearls, and his sunnies had been changed, too. At first, Taron looked satisfactorily close to _fine_, as far as Jamie could tell. But then, when the man took him to the side to actually have the anticipated talk, Jamie’s fears were confirmed. Taron essentially admitted that, although he might look perfectly okay on the outside, he was actually very fucking apprehensive about his afternoon shoot with Richard.

“It’s just a really rough scene,” Taron had said, in-between taking sips of green juice and biting down hard on his thumbnail. “We re’earsed it last week at his place and I had to actually shut him out of the room until I calmed myself down. He’s just _that_ good, J. Made me want to _break_ stuff.”

Ah, John Reid—the gift that keeps on giving. Of course, Jamie knew immediately what scene Taron was talking about. He’d flicked through Taron’s script on a lazy morning in bed, when Taron had been in the shower, and had stumbled upon something about John spitting out that he’d still being collecting his twenty percent long after Elton will have killed himself. Which, for starters, had struck him as _awful_—but which, equally, had not surprised him in the slightest. The anecdotes he’d previously gathered on Reid during casual conversation with Elton, Bernie and David really did not do the man any kind of favour in that department. And now it was up to Richard to embody the sharky businessman who milked Elton within an inch of his life for years and years and kicked him when he was down—and, incidentally, was actually physically violent with him on a few occasions. Which, again… _ew_.

Jamie wonders how Richard does it, sometimes. Speaking to Taron like _that_.

Yes, it’s a bloody film. Yes, they’re actors doing their job. Yes to all that. Except Jamie knows how hopelessly head-over-heels Taron is for the man—because, again, who wouldn’t be?—and he is also painfully aware of how emotionally fragile Taron is, these days, what with the point in the story they are currently in, the very heart of Elton spiralling down into drug, sex and alcohol abuse, John’s unfaithfulness and general unkindness, Bernie’s willingness to get the fuck out of the madness for a while and effectively abandoning him to his own devices… in short, a whole bleeding shitstorm of devastating emotions. And the idea of Taron having to go through all that really fucking breaks Jamie’s heart, when he thinks about it for more than a few seconds. He tries not to, but today it seems bloody impossible.

The root of the problem for Jamie is mainly that, at the beginning of this whole process, he has sworn to himself he’ll be Taron’s rock through every single minute of every day. The reasoning behind it is simple, really. Taron is Elton. Jamie is Bernie. Bernie has been Elton’s _support system_ all these years. Jamie wants to be there in the exact same way for Taron, if not more. Elton and Bernie never were involved romantically, after all—but Jamie and Taron… Jamie is positive about what _he_ feels. Has been for a while, actually. He is almost sure Taron might well reciprocate his feelings, but he’s been way too scared of a repeat of the ginormous Evan cock-up to actually bring himself to be bold and speak up about his emotions.

Not the point here, though—or, at least, not directly. The real bottom line is that, no matter whether they’re together or apart, no matter the time of the day, to hell with pain and heartbreak, Jamie wants to take it all in. Be a shock cushion for every hardship Taron has to get through while portraying this extraordinary man who has survived the worst and is still standing proud—and is now finally happy and loved.

Jamie really hopes that Taron has understood this, by now. That he knows perfectly well what Jamie wants to do—to _be_—for him. He has doubts, of course, but then, when doesn’t he? This relationship (can he even call it that? Is it allowed yet?) is just really fucking important to Jamie, which is why he is treading as carefully as he can manage. He wants to do this _properly_. It’s the least he can do to repay karma for letting him cross paths with Taron Egerton, really.

While pondering on all this, Jamie is standing in his steaming hot bathroom, looking in the mirror. The condensation on the glass is not completely gone, yet. The smell of eucalyptus residual from his shower is strong in his nostrils, and some still slightly damp strands of his hair are draped over his forehead. He’s barely turned his hairdryer on before his phone starts buzzing from where it’s sitting, next to the sink. _Taron_.

Jamie’s heart starts beating very bloody fast as he scrambles for his phone, almost dropping the hairdryer in the process. The sudden clumsiness makes it that he only manages to pick up on the third ring. _Need to be quicker, next time_.

“Hello?”

Jamie hears muffled sounds at the end of the line. What sounds like an acoustic guitar is playing, and it’s like it’s coming from very far away. Taron is breathing hard down the microphone—and he is, unmistakeably, sobbing.

“J…” he comes in, almost a plea. And fuck, if that doesn’t break Jamie’s heart into a million pieces. The distinct feeling of a knot forming in his throat is suddenly very real, in fact.

“Oh, fuck, T,” Jamie starts, just as _anger_ is flooding his bloodstream. Taron is somewhere on the other side of London, weeping his eyes out over the phone. _Great_. Way to materialise all his fears from earlier in the day in the span of five bloody seconds. Of course, because the anger needs to be deflected to someone, Jamie blames himself. “I knew it, I should have stayed,” he blurts. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands—would be partial to biting his nails nervously, right about now, that’s for sure. But he's trying to stop doing that. The only alternative he can think of, then, is grabbing a bottle of deodorant with all his might, channelling the rage in his grip. _Fucking idiot_.

A few sobs later, Taron is talking again.

“C-couldn’t have you around to see that,” Taron says, and he’s still crying, and Jamie’s getting _angrier_. Although the _object_ of his anger—aside from himself—he can’t seem to quite put a finger on.

Then, like a bolt of lightning surreptitiously shedding light in his mind, _Richard_ comes to mind.

Richard. Of course. The God-awful Elton and John scene. Another irrational, leftover pang of jealousy is accompanied by the crushing knowledge that this particular beat of _Rocketman_ just entails a lovely man doing an amazing job at playing one of the worst men currently alive. And that’s really not Richard’s fault, and Jamie knows that. _He_ certainly wasn’t the one to write the script. 

Plus, Jamie supposes that one cannot really blame Richard Madden for being _too_ _good_ an actor. After all, the man’s not _really_ John Reid—even if it’s frankly hard to tell he’s acting, sometimes. He’s not a money-hungry prick who hits people, has countless and irrational fits of rage, and completely disregards his partner’s feelings. Quite the contrary, in fact, as Jamie has gradually come to understand over the past few months. Richard’s a sweet, fragile man. The kind of man Jamie himself could see himself falling in love with, if ever given the chance. He doesn’t want to pin Taron’s state on Richard—like, not at all.

Lee Hall, then? Should Jamie blame Lee? One of the men he owes the start of his whole fucking career to? Not quite right, either.

He’s at a loss. He just wants Taron to be okay. It’s not fair the man should feel like this over a pretend row on set—and that Jamie isn’t there to envelop him in his arms right after.

Speaking of. Time to stop being so melodramatic, collect his wits, and do something about _that_, Jamie reckons.

“Where are you now, T?”

“Car. I just stormed out,” Taron replies, immediately. He’s articulating slightly better, but his breathing is still quite ragged from sobbing. “Couldn’t even get out of the stupid dressing gown. I still have the fucking pearl necklace on, for fuck’s sake.”

God, the poor man. Distinctly sounds like a mild panic attack. Jamie hasn’t had one in years—the days when his Mam took him to auditions and somehow _singing_ was mentioned at some point are, thankfully, far behind—but he remembers how that feels. And it’s awful. And, again, it’s nothing that really should be happening to the man he loves. Couldn’t _Richard_ have done anything?

“Have you talked to Richard? Is he with you?”

As he says it, Jamie realises how daft he’s sounding. He sorely doubts Taron would ever have called him if he’d been with Richard. He needs them both, sure, but not at the same time.

“_Fuck_ no,” he spats. “Don’t wanna talk to Richard for at least twenty-four _fucking_ ‘ours. Can’t even stand _looking_ at him right now.” Sadness has apparently effectively turned to anger. An emotion Jamie currently shares. He can work with it, he thinks.

Even though Jamie already discarded the idea of blaming Richard, Taron’s clearly not quite there yet. In fact, Taron does seem to be genuinely angry at the man, at the moment. So Jamie will play the game, for the time being. Before he gets the chance to make Taron reason with this train of thought, he needs to calm him down. Besides, even if he won’t ever admit it out loud, Jamie does immensely enjoy playing the unsung hero for Taron, whenever he can. He does love being the Bernie to his Elton. A whole lot.

“Just breathe for me, yeah, pet?”

He emphasises the word _breathe_, and he can distinctly hear his accent seeping through, stronger than usual.

“I am, J, I—I’m _trying_,” Taron says, his voice still croaky. “I just wanna go home, J. Still in the _bloody_ clothes, though, aren’t I? Julian _will_ kill me, for real this time.”

Jamie’s mind somehow starts whirring, at that. It doesn’t even take half a second for it to revert to the time Taron stole the Tiny Dancer jacket from set, a couple of weeks back. He struggles to suppress particularly fond memories of Taron wearing the lovely and colourful denim piece and _nothing else _on a particularly hot, filthy-drunk night. The jacket hadn’t even gotten dirty, but Julian had yelled at Taron for absolutely days on end when he’d brought it back, a guilty smirk painted on his face. That had all been more than worth it, though, because Jamie is now recalling how worked up and _loud _Taron had gotten by wearing the bloody jacket while being thoroughly shagged against his bedroom door.

But anyways. Not the time or place for _any_ of that, James, you filthy bastard. Mission. There’s a mission, right now. Time to be useful.

“Don’t you worry about Julian,” he reassures Taron, a renewed sense of confidence filling his chest. "I’m ringing him as soon as you confirm that you can drive home. Otherwise I’ll also call you an Uber, ‘cause if you don’t focus and end up killing yourself we’re pretty much _all_ fucked. Reeeeally not a conversation I fancy having with Dexter. Or with Elton _fucking_ John, for that matter.”

Taron actually _laughs_ at that, and Jamie’s heart swells up. Maybe he really _can_ turn the evening around.

“I can drive, J, I promise. Will you—”

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” Jamie interrupts him. He knows what he’s going to ask next, too. “I’m ordering Nando’s to your place and picking up Ben and Jerry’s from the corner shop. And we’re finally watching _The Dark Knight Rises_, because I can’t believe how you’ve lived to this day without knowing how the bloody trilogy wraps.” Jamie says this all at once, without breathing. Feels pretty proud of himself for not formulating the movie proposition using the words _I’m renting_, too. Seems like he’s finally managed to leave his old habits from the Noughties far behind him, after all. Does help that absolutely no movie rental place exists in North London anymore. Besides, no one will ever convince him that Google Play or Sky On Demand is renting. There’s nothing to return, so it doesn’t count.

“I kind of wanna kiss you very fucking bad, right now, _Andrew_.”

The use of his first name makes Jamie’s skin crawl for a split-second. Then again, it’s a major throwback to the time he first caught a glimpse of _something_ in Taron’s eyes as he was dancing for him, that night at the bar. Plus, the promise of Taron’s lips on his own is enough to make him disregard that even more.

“I should hope so. See ya in half an hour, y’git.”

“Jamie?”

“Yes, sweet’eart?”

Jamie hears Taron catch his breath, softly, before he speaks.

“Nothing. Later. Promise.”

** _Part II – Oh, the right romantic line_ **

After a very brief calculation, Jamie resolves to suck it up and take the Tube instead of driving. It’s rush hour on a Friday, and saying Central London is _fucking_ _manic_ is the understatement of the century. Surprisingly—or maybe not, no-one has actually seen his _Fantastic Four_, after all—he manages to arrive to Taron’s Chelsea flat completely unrecognised and therefore unscathed, and even five minutes earlier than planned. He almost doesn’t even have the time to get out of the lift and walk up to the entrance before Taron is all over him, entangling him in the tightest hug, breathing hard and kissing his neck in the embrace, apparently nonchalant about the fact that the door is still open, and there’s a family living next door who could come out at any minute and catch them like this.

“T, _door_,” Jamie just barely manages to articulate, before taking a few steps towards Taron, slightly pushing against him so he can slam the door behind him, only to fall back against it with a loud thud when Taron pins him to it and starts hungrily kissing him. It’s out of the blue and it’s rough and needy… and it’s all _way_ too familiar. Jamie knows exactly what’s going to happen if he lets Taron get away with the rhythm he’s got them at already.

“Love… mmh, T…” Jamie tries to get out, in-between kisses—only momentarily registering that the intense snogging session he’s currently involved in seems to be happening with a version of 1970’s Elton John, rather than with the usual stripped-down, casual Taron that Jamie is used to.

Taron’s hands are cupping Jamie’s face, and he’s sighing into Jamie’s mouth, and it’s a sound so sweet and yet so incredibly heart-breaking at the same time, and Jamie knows there is so much stuff left unsaid in those sighs—and he wants to know it all.

“Taron,” he comes in again, firmer this time, and he finally seems to get the message across.

“Hmm?” Taron hums, against Jamie’s lips, seemingly entranced. There’s a glint in his eyes—Jamie knows the one. The amount of times he’s seen it is starting to add up to something ridiculous, by this point. But… no. He won’t let him get away with it.

“Talk to me, pet?” he tries, pushing gently against Taron’s chest to distance him, breaking the kiss.

Taron looks surprised at the request. As if he’d been anticipating a completely different set of words would be coming out of Jamie’s mouth.

“Talk? There’s nothing to talk about,” Taron insists, proceeding to pin Jamie back against the door, humming against the skin of his neck, where he’s planting soft, wet kisses. “What is it with you and Richard and bloody _talking_?”

Again, this is all too familiar to Jamie. He knows where this is going.

“Taron, love,” Jamie pleads, his fingers entangling in the man’s short hair, caressing his head gently, and struggling against the instinct to pull him closer and surrender to his touch. “Please tell me what went wrong.”

Taron sighs against his neck once again, and then seems to give up on his act all together. He steps back, reinstating eye contact—and his eyes are full of tears once again.

“It was awful, J. We had to shoot it _eight fucking times_,” Taron says, his voice shaking, his hand running through his thinned-out hair. “Self-conscious” is not an adjective one would ever normally use to describe Taron. He looks _extremely_ self-conscious, now.

“No break in-between? No time to re-centre yourself?”

“Nah. Time crunch, an’ all that. We went straight back in every time. It just built up, and I couldn’t do anything about it. Richard looked so _in the zone_, too—I didn’t want to break him. He was doing a killer job, and I thought it better to keep my mouth shut. Bad fucking idea that was, eh?”

Jamie listens to all that intently, the words flowing out of Taron’s mouth confirming what he feared—that he was right to worry about this whole thing becoming unbearable to the man at times. He wants to say a lot of things, then—voice his anger against himself for not hanging around for the afternoon shoot, tell Taron what a good job he’s doing, reassure him it’s alright, that he knows how much Richard loves him, that he’s _seen_ it through the man’s eyes, for Christ’s sake—but he doesn’t quite manage to find the right words for all that. He almost doesn’t even realise that he’s been inching closer to Taron as the man was speaking, and it’s surprising when his hand instinctively reaches out to caress Taron’s cheek, and his fingers feel the wetness there, and he finds himself just wanting to hug him tightly and never let go.

So he does.

“Oh, love,” Jamie says, as he pulls Taron in, and Taron is all around him in seconds, broad and strong. The hug is soul-crushing, and the scent of him is intoxicating, and his wet cheek pressed in the crook of Jamie’s neck is only slightly heartbreaking. “You’re all right, pet. I’m here now. I’m so sorry I wasn’t before. I hate that you had to go through all that alone.”

“Jamie… No idea what I’d do without you.”

Jamie feels a rush of love and elatedness reach his face, and he really can’t stop himself from pressing a fierce kiss on Taron’s temple. The hug is over more quickly than Jamie had anticipated or wanted, but Jamie’s back is still against the door, and Jamie’s hands are on Taron’s cheeks, and Taron’s are on Jamie’s neck, and they’re still so close, and there’s so much _tension_ between them—the good kind, thank God—and it’s all a bit overwhelming for one second.

“You’d be absolutely canny, love,” Jamie reassures him. “You’d still have Richard, wouldn’t ya?” It hurts a little, to say that. It shouldn’t—but it still does. It’s probably all over his face.

Taron chuckles, then, somewhat nervously. His eyes are still filled with tears, but he suddenly looks almost as giddy as he does heartbroken, for some weird reason.

“Oh, James,” he sighs, stepping in a tad closer still, his fingers caressing the nape of Jamie’s neck and sending shivers down his spine. Something he’s done a thousand times before—but it feels different, now. New.

Oh, God, what in the _world_ is happening?

“Wha’ is it, T?”

“J, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I… I’m in love with you.”

The declaration is dropped like a nuclear bomb—inevitable, pitiless, _destructive_. Jamie is instantly catapulted into a sort of limbo, his head starts swimming, and he cannot quite remember the last time he took a proper breath. He feels like he’s drunk, high on hard drugs and dreaming, all at the same time.

It’s simply _not possible_ that the words he’s just heard have actually come out of Taron’s mouth. His overworked brain really must be playing tricks on him, right now. Maybe he’s getting old. Maybe he needs hearing aids. Taron Egerton—sweet, gorgeous piece of a man, made of talent and Cadbury’s caramel chocolate—loves _him_? The once fourteen-year-old boy with the lopsided ears who simply got lucky enough to have been forced to dance with his big sister as a wee lad and miraculously was deemed the most satisfactory among a crowd of two-thousand-odd children, to get the honour of playing a dancing boy in a cult movie, twenty whole years ago? Nah. Im-_fucking_-possible.

Jamie only realises he just got stuck in his own head when one of Taron’s hands leaves his neck to come to touch the left side of his chest, and in that moment Jamie’s heart starts beating so fast that he thinks he might actually just have been sent on his merry way towards a heart attack. He knows Taron must _feel_ the relentless hard thumping through his shirt—a light layer of linen standing as a pathetically weak obstacle in the way of the promise of skin-to-skin contact—because Taron is now smiling broadly at him, and tears are welling up in his eyes, again, but these tears are different. The good kind—Jamie hopes.

“You don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready, J,” Taron says, kindly, and now the hands on Jamie’s chest are two, and Taron has taken a step towards him, and it’s all too much for Jamie just to keep standing there like a lunatic, gawping at Taron, his eyes transfixed on his every move, while his heart is beating _this_ fast.

“Oh, what the fuck, Taron, ‘course I bloody love you too.”

Jamie hadn’t intended that to come out quite as aggressively as he hears himself say it in the moment. He does realise, however, that the key word here is _out_. It’s not just in his system anymore, not just buzzing in his brain and making him constantly lose sleep—it’s in Taron’s ears and headspace, it’s resonating in his lungs, heart and soul. It’s _out_.

“I love you,” Jamie repeats, “I’ve loved you from the first time you sang me that bit of _Border Song_ during our first coffee break together, two months ago.” Jamie blushes furiously after blurting all that out, and has to add, “Christ, it _would_ be that bloody song, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, holy _fucking_ Moses, Jamie Bell,” Taron very appropriately retorts. “You take my breath away,” he continues, and Jamie doesn’t know whether he’ll ever get over hearing Taron speak those words. Time to kiss him fiercely once again, then, and smile against his lips, and grab at every bit of him Jamie can reach, and giggle when Taron gets back to kissing and biting his neck. Bloody tease he is.

_His_ bloody tease, in fact. Wow. Taron is in love with him. Jamie makes a mental note to pinch himself and make sure he’s not dreaming.

And then the moment is all but shattered—but not completely, because nothing could really shatter _this_—when Taron’s doorbell rings. Rude. No-one should be allowed to interrupt this.

Taron’s eyes light up. Jamie rolls his eyes.

Taron laughs, the first open and earnest chuckle of the evening—and his teeth are visible, and Jamie finally notices that he still has the Elton tooth gap painted in. Which is incredibly endearing, by the way—and which, Jamie reckons, deserves another kiss. Fuck the JustEat delivery man. He can bloody wait five minutes.

“J… hmmm,” Taron hums against his lips, fighting against Jamie’s teeth now nibbling at his lower lip. He smiles broadly, breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads close together. “I know I just declared my undying love for you, but I still think I might love that chicken more than anything and anybody else in the world, so,” Taron declares, matter-of-factly. “If you don’t mind, _Andrew_, would you kindly get the heck away from the door?”

Right. The name again. That’s about enough.

“If you call me that one more time, I swear to God I _will_ murder you in your sleep.”

“Nah, you won’t, honey. You _looooove_ me, remember?” Taron says, his right hand coming to touch the left side of his chest. Jamie rolls his eyes again, but can’t keep a straight face for the life of him. He knows the man’s absolutely right. The doorbell rings again.

“Also, actually, will you be an absolute _darling_ and get the door? The poor delivery man doesn’t need to see _this_,” Taron continues, as he moves his right hand up and down his own body, gesturing at his whole look — the turquoise gown, the string of pearls, the drop earring. Yeah, bit much, actually.

“You’re right, pet. ’sall good, I got this,” Jamie says, as he turns his back on Taron and buzzes the delivery man in. Taron heads for the bedroom. “Oh, Taron?” Jamie calls out, as suddenly he remembers a little something in the backpack at his feet.

“Yes, my love?” Taron comes in, popping his head back out the doorframe of his bedroom. The gown is gone, so he’s practically naked, and he’s _ravishing_.

“You’re forgetting something, love. C’mere,” Jamie says, taking in the sight of the wonderful man. _His_ wonderful man, as Jamie keeps having to remind himself. God, did that really just happen?

Taron strolls back towards Jamie just as he’s getting the light blue glass bottle out of his bag. Jamie watches Taron’s eyes light up with excitement.

“Oh, J. You didn’t have to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I did,” Jamie replies, handing him the spirit and grinning broadly. “Now go get changed, pet. Wear the trackies I love, and don’t bother with underwear.”

Taron laughs. “You’re _wicked_, James. And I love you.”

Jamie pulls him into another open-mouthed kiss, and then says it again—just because he can.

“I love you too. I love you, sunshine.”

Bloody hell. Way to turn an evening around, eh? Jamie could definitely get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are, obviously, by Arctic Monkeys and Elton. Couldn’t resist either of them, but especially the hint at _Don’t Let The Sun_, since that performance from last week positively destroyed me. Thank you, Taron Egerton, for always being this flawless. God bless your big Welsh heart.
> 
> Right. So. Jamie in way-too-tight clothes is:  
1\. my ultimate wet dream, and thank you Julian Day for coming up with that outfit for Bernie.  
2\. a way to pay off the Richard comment from last chapter—because I’m a hoe for continuity, and I hope you appreciated that.
> 
> Also, hello, yes—the L-bomb was officially dropped by Breezy Baby, and Dancing Boy couldn’t be happier about this. They do love each other, a whole fucking lot. And, because I’m in the mood for evidence from the real world, today, please check out [the moment](https://applesfallingfromblondehair.tumblr.com/post/188465283091/yeah-bye-theyre-in-love%20%20rel=) when Jamie was brought onstage by Bernie during the _Rocketman_ live concert, last Thursday. Yeah. I fucking know. 
> 
> Last but not least, as usual, credit for the whole Andrew shebang goes to [ Sharonglitterbombjohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharonglitterbombjohn/pseuds/Sharonglitterbombjohn). She's amazing and a dear friend, and if y'all are into the idea of Jamie Bell being an hopeless idiot in love you should definitely go read her stuff. 
> 
> Alright, then. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? Next week, well… You’re most definitely not ready for what’s coming next week. Possibly the longest chapter in this whole thing.
> 
> And it’s Taron, baby.
> 
> Taron and Richard, to be precise (with a generous side of Jamie, of course, because I can’t get enough of him).
> 
> A couples’ weekend away.
> 
> In Scotland.
> 
> Right, now I really have to go, before I say _way_ too much. I love you all, see you next week.
> 
> C x


	10. 10. Taron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Bond car.
> 
> Pat and Dick Madden.
> 
> Blueberry mojitos and the river Clyde.
> 
> A kilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, people. The big one. The chapter we’ve all been waiting for. Or, at least, the one I myself have not stopped obsessing about for one _second_ since its conception, many moons ago.
> 
> Let me preface this in the correct way.
> 
> It all started with [this picture of Richard Madden in a bloody kilt](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Dgb0nMnX0AEwskx.jpg). (And, by the way, can I just say—THANK YOU, Kit Harington, for getting married to a lovely Scottish lass and having Glasgow Fuckface himself as one of your honoured guests. We’ll be forever in your debt for this one.)
> 
> From this, the conversation spiralled into me promising my main hypewomen [ supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof) and [ Egertonsend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egertonsend) a smutty Madderton oneshot involving the kilt.
> 
> Which, in turn, made it so that I _had_ to make Richard and Taron run away to Glasgow for the weekend in this whole thing of a longfic. Drive together, meet the parents, go for a drink, and attend a wedding. A lot happens to our boys in the span of a short couple of days—and I enjoyed writing every minute of this more than _anything_ I’ve ever written before. I hope you’ll love it as much as I do.
> 
> Huge thanks to the best of the best, [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=), for a humongous beta work and for the countless amazing bits and bobs they fed me while I was writing the initial draft and really up to the final editing process. I could never have done this without you, and I’m even more grateful than usual—if at all possible. Please refer to the end notes for more precise references to the aforementioned bits and bobs, because they all deserve their special recognition.
> 
> Disclaimer: this chapter is very fucking long, so let me help you navigate it. 
> 
> If y’all are into domestic, cutesy, _sappy_ boys in love, out to steal your heart and melt it like an ice cube in the sun, then parts I, II, and III are your poison.
> 
> If, on the other hand, y’all are in it for the hot fire flames smut, please refer to part IV. [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=) tell me they’d like to apologise for any leftover typos or mistakes they might have failed to spot, on the account of the porn being “too hot”. So yeah, definitely tread carefully, I guess.
> 
> Right. Let’s dive deep into this sea of tartan.

** _Part I – I want to drive away with you, I want your complications too, I want your dreary Mondays, wrap your arms around me, baby boy_ **

_Friday morning_

“Hello, handsome,” Taron murmurs against Richard’s lips, gripping at the collar of his insanely fancy shirt and pulling him closer.

“Good morning to ye, _mo luran_,” Richard says. Taron’s knees buckle just a tad, and he purrs against Richard’s chest.

“Good God, Rich, decided to murder me with the brogue first thing in the morning, have you?” He flutters his eyelashes and feels kind of silly, like a lovestruck little girl—but this is just how Richard gets him, these days.

“Definitely giving it a good shot. _Hoo_’m I doin’?”

_Hoo_ is he doing? He’s giving Taron a semi just by talking to him—so, _pretty well_? God, this trip will take a toll on Taron. In the best possible way. He can just _feel_ it.

“Shame that Ken didn’t let you keep the accent for _Cinderella_. You’d a’ gotten the girl even quicker, then. No stupid shoe nonsense,” Taron replies—not quite believing the fact that he’s just namedropped _Sir Kenneth Branagh_ as “Ken”. But there’s no time to cringe, no, sir, because he’s in too deep, and he now has to perform his famously awful Scottish accent for Richard’s entertainment only. “Knickers _doon_ in fecking seconds, I’m telling ye, lad,” he delivers, raising an eyebrow and shooting Richard an all-knowing look.

Richard laughs in earnest, shakes his head, pulls him closer and plants a soft kiss on his forehead. “Will you _ever_ stop talking shite, Taron Egerton?”

“Not in a million years, Mr. Highlands Loverboy,” Taron murmurs against Richard’s neck, and he inhales his scent as deep as he can—a mixture of clean cotton and something spicy and woody that makes his head momentarily spin. Taron loves it when Richard holds him like this. Thank _fuck _they got over the dumb row over the Reid scene from last week.

“Everything ready, then, love?” Richard asks after they are done cuddling on Taron’s doorstep.

“Hmm-hmm,” Taron nods, “Give me a sec. Getting the bags.” He leaves Richard in the hallway and goes to retrieve his giant suitcase, suit bag and a small wheelie case.

“_Bags_, plural?” Taron hears Richard call out. “It’s a weekend trip, Duckie. Hoo _much_ shit d’ye pack?”

“Uhmm, excuse you, Madden,” Taron admonishes, coming out of the room and piercing Richard with a fake stern gaze. “We’re going to a bloody wedding up there, aren’t we? I like to have _options_, if you don’t mind. Not like I’m wearing a kilt like your smug Glaswegian arse, am I?”

At that, Richard raises his hands in defeat and smiles wickedly, only stopping as Taron’s gaze becomes a little insistent and he gets the hint that he should help carry something, which he gallantly offers to do.

Taron watches in delighted amusement as Richard ends up carrying approximately eighty percent of the luggage from the flat to the lift, and from the lift all the way to his car—which, to Taron’s surprise, is not the two-place flame red E-Type Jaguar they took last time they went for a ride together—but a snazzy warm beige convertible Aston Martin Volante.

Taron suddenly has a lot of questions floating around his head, most of which make him feel like one of those moronic journalists who won’t stop going on about the fecking Bond gig. Then again, Richard’s ride of choice is absolutely not helping to stray away from the mental association with the Scottish heartthrob spy. So what the hell. He’s going to say something about it.

“Seriously, Richard,” Taron comments, as soon as they’re both settled in the car, which looks and smells new. The light brown leather interiors are _impeccable_, and the metal inserts are so shiny that Taron can properly see his reflection in them. “Please, tell me you did not just buy this car.”

Richard nonchalantly shrugs and swiftly shifts gears, driving in the North London traffic like he fucking owns the place. To be fair, it is a lot less manic now, since it’s barely 7 AM, but Taron still finds his driving style exhilaratingly arousing. “Wha’ if I did?” Richard replies, half a smile appearing on his face, eyes invisible behind his dark sunnies. _Ridiculous man_.

“Oh, Dickie. You just have _no idea_, do ya?” Taron says, shaking his head and smiling warmly up at Richard. “Better not be wearing a white tux in the next couple of months, or press will literally glue themselves to your sorry arse, and they’ll _never_ let go for the life of them. Like the time you got a piece of chewing gum stuck under the sole of your stupid expensive Yeezys, remember?” That had been _hilarious_.

Richard’s mouth curls into a smug grin, and he shakes his head lightly. “Not planning on any of that, love, dinnae worry.”

The drive is surprisingly smooth for a Friday. After they’re out of London, the Martin practically _floats_ on the motorway, and Taron is reminded why they’re going by car and not just taking a bloody plane there. Driving around with Richard is something he just knows he will never get tired of. The man’s control of the wheel is _mesmerising_, his hair flowing in the wind makes him look more attractive than ever—yes, it’s warm enough to have the top down, and Taron feels like they’re the male version of Thelma and Louise, and it’s _everything_—and the selection of tunes is just top-notch. That last one is actually all Taron’s doing, of course, although Richard will occasionally butt in and request Taron put on some upbeat track or another.

They’re listening to Jamiroquai’s _Radio_ when Taron’s phone buzzes from where it’s charging, next to the gear stick. Taron picks it up. It’s Jamie.

(10:32 A.M.) **_Hello, love. Missing you like crazy this morning._**

A selfie is attached. Jamie’s face is half-covered by a cream-coloured pillow, and he’s smiling to the camera. Taron’s heart fills with an equal mélange of joy, undying love and _longing_. His phone is suddenly as warm in his hands as Richard’s body is, only a few inches from him. He smiles down at the device, stupidly giddy, just as another text comes in.

(10:33 A.M.) **_Hope the drive’s going well. Trust that Rich is not speeding? I kinda need you back in one piece._**

(10:33 A.M.) **_Also, say hi from me._**

“Jamie says hello,” Taron chuckles, and makes the dangerous move of showing his phone to Richard, by positioning it so it’s in his field of vision as he’s driving. Richard’s ever-present grin widens at the sight of the selfie—and, for some reason, he licks his lips.

“Mmmh, good morning indeed, _Jamie_,” Richard coos, appreciatively. “Say hi from me too. Also, tell ‘im he definitely should be locked up for looking that ravishing first thing in the morning.”

Taron’s eyes widen, but he’s only faking being shocked, because he already knows perfectly well how Richard feels about Jamie. Taron has always been transparent about Jamie to Richard, and he is pretty positive Richard has absolutely no problem with their _arrangement_—a word he despises, but a necessary one in this context.

(10:35 A.M.) **Hello to you, gorgeous man. Rich says hi back. We agree in saying you’re looking like a bloody D&G model this fine morning.**

Taron hits _send_ and immediately worries whether he said too much. He realises he actually doesn’t know how serious Richard is about this whole thing, and he’s never actually thought to ask. He decides it’s about time he did, then, and for some weird trick of destiny this happens almost exactly when Jay Kay is singing _three’s not a crowd, I’m a man, I’m a man_.

Damn.

“Dickie?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Were—were you serious about Jamie back there? Like, is it just the usual banter, or do you really _mean_ what you said?”

Richard runs a hand through his hair and scratches his beard. He looks pensive, if only slightly coy—nothing new there, really. But then his expression goes through two other stages, which Taron interprets as something like _yearning_ and, ultimately, mischief.

Oh, God. Has Taron missed some kind of memo about these two?

“I thought I’d been pretty clear that one time, T,” Richard replies, and his hand is now gripping the gear stick—unnecessarily, because they’ve been cruising on sixth gear for a good forty-five minutes already—and Taron finds the gesture weirdly erotic, and words momentarily fail him.

Silence falls for the whole of ten seconds, before Richard decides to oblige him with the rest of his statement.

“I did mean it when I said taking you from behind while you’re sucking him off is definitely on top of my bucket list—and has been for quite some time.”

Taron is so very glad he’s stopped sipping on the Red Bull they bought on their last service station pit-stop, because he knows that if he had been drinking while Richard was delivering _that_ whole thing, he would have either spat it all out, or started coughing like a madman. Instead, he just turns his head slowly, better to face Richard, who is looking very proud of himself, and driving just imperceptibly faster.

** _Part II – Fairytales and firesides_ **

_Friday afternoon_

They get to Richard’s parents’ house in Elderslie at around 4 P.M.

Traffic was not as hellish as Taron expected—not in the slightest, funnily enough. The delay is entirely the result of a scrumptious stopover in a rustic inn somewhere in Cheshire, that Richard had planned for a late lunch. Best damned steak and kidney pie Taron’s ever had in his _life_, in fact.

Richard went teetotal for the day, what with driving the goddamned Bond car up to the homeland and all, but Taron most definitely did _not_ hold out on the red—it’s the weekend, and they’re away together for the very first time, and, besides, one glass of the exquisite 2013 Chianti Classico the lovely hostess pulled out of her sleeve simply could _not_ do.

It had to be _four_, then, and by the time Taron is finally shaking Pat and Richard Sr.’s hands, well, he’s on what should probably be referred to as the _wrong side of tipsy_. But it’s _funny_ tipsy, at least—because that’s pretty much his factory setting.

Richard seems to be eyeing him in an air that’s in-between outraged and amused. Taron sees the silver streak shake a lot at the silly banter he manages to establish, in record time, with the makers of the piece of work that is Richard Madden—and it’s only the most _gorgeous_ of catalysts for Taron’s infamous cheek to come fully out to play.

In fact, Taron’s pretty sure he’s positively charming Richard’s mum, since she’s looking at him like he’s made of solid gold—and her eyes are the exact same blue as Richard’s, and Taron is worried he might already love the woman in return, because she’s just offered to put the kettle on, and _why won’t they have a slice of shortbread pie, eh?_, and there’s custard, too, and Taron is absolutely sure Richard’s house is his new favourite place in the world. Tied with Aber and his Mam’s, of course.

“_Behave_, T,” Richard urges him, through gritted teeth and the big, awkward smile he’s now addressing to his mum, who’s looking lovingly at the pair of them while fussing over the pie slices—she insisted on making them _pretty_, so it’s exactly what she’s doing.

“Nonsense, Dickie. She _adores _me already,” Taron whispers, winks and takes a sip of tea off the fancy china Pat has gotten out for them. Richard just rolls his eyes at him and shrugs. He knows Taron’s right.

Richard Sr. is sat opposite the two, and he’s asking Taron about Elton, and whether it’s true that Taron and his wee lad actually were invited for dinner at his place, or if Richard had been talking muckle to him and Pat all that time. So naturally Taron goes into an anecdote about Elton and David and _Billie Jean King and her wife_, completely omitting the fact that Elton recently confessed to him that he’d thought about inviting Richard not because he was part of the cast, but because he genuinely thought him and Taron were involved romantically. They weren’t (not at the time at least), but it’s incredible what ten short days can do to turn a quick friendship into a windswept romance and mind-blowing sex, really.

Anyway. Richard Sr. does not need to know anything about _that_, Taron reckons.

The banter is lovely, and the accents are _thick_, and Taron’s feeling so welcomed and loved already, and his heart is beating faster than usual when he looks at Richard and imagines him running around the house in his schoolboy uniform, refusing to do homework to rehearse his lines instead. The same boy he actually can see plastered over every possible surface of the cosy country home—frolicking in a puddle with a humongous Highland Collie, red wellies almost completely covered in mud; sat on the steps of the house, holding some shiny trophy; looking proudly at the camera while shaking hands with a tall man, the poster for _Complicity_ standing out from the background; a slightly more grown-up version in a suit and tie, ready for prom. Weirdly enough, no graduation photos are in sight—Taron finds this particular detail slightly odd, since those are his own Mam’s pride and joy, and he believes she and Pat might well be cut from the same cloth. He makes a mental note to ask Richard about it.

When Richard looks at him while he’s pondering all this, he’s so _beautiful_ and _content_ and looks almost incredulous that this is actually happening—that Taron really is standing in his childhood home, chatting away to his mum and dad, and looking at his childhood photos.

“Taron, boy, it really is a pleasure to have ye here,” Richard Sr. says, as he emerges from the kitchen.

“Likewise, sir,” Taron comes back, accepting a light-but-firm pat on the shoulder from the man, and still feeling Richard’s piercing gaze on him, like an icy blue breeze on the left side of his face.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Richard Sr. replies, shaking his head, the sides of his mouth curled up in quite an avuncular smile. “No “sir” business in this _hoose_, laddie. Just “Dick”, for ye, eh?”

Taron smiles back at him, as his heart swells up a bit more. “Dick. Gotcha. Pleasure’s all mine.”

“_Alreyt_, _alreyt_, dad,” Richard comes in, closing the distance between him and Taron and putting an arm around his waist, protective. “Dinnae scare this one away, will ye?”

They both chuckle, and Taron feels himself blush furiously. He _definitely_ needs to hear the story about the one (_ones_?) whom Dick Madden _did_ manage to scare away. He adds it to his bucket list for the weekend, and then moves on—he needs to ask the man a pressing question regarding _kilts_, of all things.

“Was wondering something, _Dick_,” Taron starts, feeling Richard’s fingers close around the soft skin of his hip as he’s stressing the nickname. “I know Richard’s going to wear a kilt tomorrow, for the wedding. I was just wondering… Is there a Madden family tartan? I tried looking for it, but I’m afraid the mighty Internet failed me completely.”

Dick’s face lights up, and the waterfall of Scottish brogue that Taron is met with as a result truly and completely takes his breath away—as well as making the fact that he’s done his homework to try to impress the boyfriend’s parents _completely_ worth it.

As it turns out, no, a Madden family tartan is _not_ a thing—and yes, Dick _does_ have strong opinions about it.

“We just never got _roond_ to designing one, have we, laddie?” Dick asks Richard, sounding just a tad exasperated. “Wee one’s just gone off and done his thing—havnae seen ‘im in what feels like ten years, have we?”

“We’re so _prood_ of him, though, aren’t we, love?” Pat chimes in, walking in on the man-to-man-to-man discussion and bringing in a fresh gust of auburn hair and cinnamon—and Taron feels like a hopeless fanboy when he sees a whole lot of Catelyn Stark in her. Until she says her next piece, that is.

“Taron, love,” she starts, touching his arm, caringly. “Have a wee dram wi’ me and tell me _all_ about Elton, won’t ye? Let’s leave Big Dick and Little Dick settle this on their own.”

Oh, _Jesus Christ_.

Taron can’t help but _gawp_ at the woman. Then, he stifles a laugh—pathetically, really. Doesn’t _dare_ turn to look at Richard, but he distinctly feels the icy gaze having effectively been turned into roaring flames straight from hell.

“_MUM_!” Richard exclaims, in a tone that is much, _much_ more high-pitched than Taron is used to hearing. Taron can’t help but turn and look at Richard, then, and he finds himself completely unsurprised to see the man go through every single shade of crimson in the span of approximately three seconds. Oh, this is absolutely _priceless_.

“Hmm-hmm,” Taron nods in Pat’s general direction, his own voice going up a few semitones too, in the continued effort of keeping a straight face. He strokes Richard’s back, affectionately, and then lets go of him, in favour of offering the woman his arm. “_Let’s_ have a wee dram, Pat. There’s _so much_ to talk about.”

Pat takes his arm, enthusiastically, and they stroll away, deeper into the living room, leaving _Big Dick_ and _Little Dick_ (God, Taron will _never_ let Richard forget about this one) behind, staring incredulously at the pair of them.

Heck, they’ve barely just arrived in Elderslie, and this is already the best weekend getaway of Taron’s _life_.

**_Part III -_** **_And I think of you in Glasgow_**

_Friday night_

The place Richard has picked out for the evening is, hysterically enough, a _rooftop bar_. Trust Richard Madden to find the fanciest of places for a date even in his own hometown, which most definitely has not gone down in history for the elegant kind of piss-up that London is so famous for—and that Richard seems to have acquired a taste for, too. The Red Sky Bar (what an original name, by the way—_Sky_? For a rooftop bar?_ Groundbreaking…_) has an astonishing view of the old shipyard and the river Clyde, which is quite literally taking Taron’s breath away. The yellow glow of the streetlights dancing on top of the pitch-black water is hypnotising, and it’s all Taron can look at when he’s not immersed in the blue infinity of Richard’s eyes.

“So your Mum’s an absolute _gangster_,” Taron observes, as soon as they’re comfortably sitting down, side-by-side, on a fancy and extremely comfortable couch. “And you never thought to mention it?”

“Oh, God, Taron,” Richard replies, setting their cocktail glasses on the table in front of them. It’s been three whole hours, and the man’s still blushing about it. “_Ah dinnae ken_ where that came from. I specifically told her not to embarrass me in front of you and… she’s just gone and done it again, hasn’t she? Un-fucking-believable,” he adds, sighing out loud and looking genuinely mortified.

Taron chuckles as he pulls Richard close and plants a loud smooch on his temple.

“You’re adorable. And your mum’s a riot. And I promise I won’t go on _too_ much about Big Dick and Little Dick. Cross my heart, lover.”

“You bloody better,” Richard replies, a hand coming up to cup Taron’s face and pecking his lips, impossibly soft. Only a tad indecent. _Perfect_.

When they part, Taron thinks that the opportunity for one last joke is too good not to take, so he does. “Plus, has your mum _seen_ your dick, lately? Just sayin’,” Taron says, raising his hands in surrender.

Richard looks scandalised for what feels like the fifteenth time that day, and then proceeds to chuckle, _you’re impossible_, before he pulls him in for another kiss, much deeper and more passionate, this time.

When that one’s over as well, Taron finds that his heart is now beating way too fast. They’re in public, for Christ’s sake. Can’t the man cool it down for just _one second_?

“Good gracious, Madden,” Taron says, breathless. Richard smells _divine_ once again, and it’s just making him want to drop to his knees and get on with it. “Wha’ _is_ it with you, today?”

Richard smiles against his lips as he kisses him again. And again. And _again_.

“I’m just so _happy_ I finally managed to bring ye here,” Richard says, sounding sincerely delighted. “Show you my home, take you shopping, have you as my date at a wedding… Y’know. Actual _couples_’ stuff.”

My, how Taron loves to hear Richard Madden voice his deepest feelings. A whole lot, in fact. And how profoundly he agrees with him, too.

“God, I love you. I’m ecstatic to be here, too. _So_ glad we’re doing this. We deserved a break, and this place is already everything I hoped it would be. I just love you so fucking much, Dickie.”

“I love you too. You have no idea how much, Golden Boy. Jesus, how absolutely bloody sappy you get me, _mo leannan_.”

Cripes. This again.

“Listen,” Taron starts, fake-stern. “You need to explain the incessant flow of Gaelic, today, because it’s honestly making it _very difficult_ for me to keep it in my pants. You sound like… a clansman straight out of _Outlander_. Where is all this coming from?”

“Right, yes, of course,” Richard concedes, grinning broadly as he leans forward towards the table to pick up his blueberry mojito. The drink choice seems oddly niche—Taron distinctly remembers Jamie telling him about a blueberry mojito, a couple of weeks back, and it can't _possibly _be coincidence. He decides to just roll with it and not ask any questions, though, because he can sense some juicy stories coming.

“Mum’s to blame for the Gaelic, really,” Richard explains, as he takes a sip from his bamboo straw. “Wow, Jamie was right—this is fucking amazing,” he adds, almost nonchalantly—and Taron _bloody knew it_, and he opens his mouth to comment on that, but the man seems to be on a roll and he doesn't get a word in. “She taught me bits and bobs. Works like a _charm_ to pick up birds. And _guys_, too, to be fair.”

Oh? _Oh_. Well, of course it does. Judging by the state of the semi he’s now sporting, Taron realises that he really doesn’t need the man to spell it out for him—Richard Madden speaking Gaelic could get _everyone_ under his spell in the blink of an eye.

“As if you needed _that_ to make everyone in the room fall at your feet, eh, Romeo?” Taron says, in what he hopes is a seductive tone. “But I get it. I really, _really_ do. I guess I’ll have to thank Pat for that one too, then—‘cos it honestly makes me want to sign my body off to you forever.”

“Thought you’d done that already, _a thasgaidh_.”

Honestly.

“Alright, now it’s just getting ridiculous. How many of these can you just pull out of your hat at any given time?”

“A few,” Richard says, chuckling. He’s enjoying this, Taron can tell. And it’s just as well—because Taron is loving it, too. Very much so. Very much looking forward to shagging the living hell out of him in his childhood bedroom, in fact.

“Seriously, Madden,” Taron replies. “You never cease to amaze me. Speaking of being amazed and surprised—how in the _world_ did you manage to find a fucking rooftop bar in bloody Glasgow?”

This results into the man launching onto an actual monologue about how him picking this bar for their outing has nothing to do with him wanting to show off and spoil Taron, for once (yes, Taron did get him to admit that their first date at Bocca di Lupo was _definitely_ a cocky move—not that the experience wasn’t thoroughly cherished, mind)—but actually, if Taron _really _wants to know, it’s all about showing him the Clydeside shipyards that gave life to the whole of Glasgow, and shaped the city to make it the absolute wonder it is today.

“I believe that Rory picked this place to build the bar because—his words, not mine—here he could find_ humbling realness _and_ honesty_,” Richard explains, enthusiastically, as he’s taking another sip of his drink. “The lads and I all took the piss at the time—_getting way too deep, laddie, yer opening a glorified pub, mate, not a fecking art gallery!_—but, in retrospect… I can see he was absolutely spot-on.”

There are many things buzzing inside Taron’s mind while the wonderful man next to him is talking. His accent is somehow thicker than usual, and his fingers are mindlessly playing with Taron’s hair where it’s peeking out from underneath the permanent beanie he’s forced to wear to hide the Elton ‘do he’s been sporting, lately. The two thoughts that stand out the most, though, are the following.

For one, _of course_ Richard knows the owner of this place. That should not have come to a surprise to Taron in the slightest, since the man seems to know practically everyone who’s anyone, these days, and approximately anywhere in Britain—or the rest of the planet, for that matter. _Hell-bent on world domination_, Richard Madden is.

Second, and most importantly, Taron is mesmerised by how passionate and outspoken Richard is being, tonight. He’s been like this all day, actually—and it’s an absolute breath of fresh air. Richard is quite literally unshackling himself from the restraints he obviously seems to self-impose, letting his thoughts and opinions and personality shine through—and letting the brogue free to roam, too. He’s simply being _himself_, the way one only does when they’re back home.

And, God, Taron _really_ needs to repay the favour and take Richard to Aberystwyth, doesn’t he?

“_Ti'n ddel_, Dickie,” Taron declares, smiling broadly at Richard as he’s collecting the last drops of the deliciously tangy blueberry cocktail through his straw. “_Rwy’n dy garu di_.”

“You’re cute too, Duckie. And I love you too.”

Taron is flabbergasted. Richard raises a very infuriating eyebrow, and proceeds to just looks _smug_.

“You bloody show-off.”

“Sue me for trying to impress the love of my life.”

“The amount of times you do it—that would end up costing me a lot of money, now, wunnit? Nah, it’s fine. Hit me with the all the Welsh y’have, _cariad_. Make me want it more.”

“Is that even possible, at this point?” Richard replies, raising an eyebrow and biting down on his lower lip in that way Taron can _never_ bloody resist.

“Shut your face and kiss me, you Scottish prick.”

They go strolling on the North bank of the river Clyde, basking in the pale moonlight. They’re tipsy on excellent cocktails, love, and euphoria—the thrill of being away from the real world, just the two of them, is really, really doing it, at the moment. Richard shows Taron the SSE Hydro, and the Clydeside Distillery, which he deems a _bloody tourist trap_ at first, only to eat his own drunken words a few seconds later—because _if it educates miscreants like you about whisky, then I’m all for it, really_.

Then it’s the turn of the SW3 Studio Warehouse, and Richard tells him the absolutely fucking heartbreaking story of that one time back in 2016 when stars seemed to finally have aligned, and Richard was home right in time for Passenger’s gig there, and he was going to go with Cara and Lauren and their respective husbands—and then he’d gotten the blasted e-mail telling him that the concert had been cancelled, due to Mike being ill. Underneath the cool, hip, Glasto-going façade he’s got going on for social media, Taron knows how much of a sucker Richard is for folk music—so he gets it. He absolutely bloody does. Poor Dickie, being deprived of a night of listening to England’s finest modern troubadour strumming away at an acoustic guitar and singing softly. How _rude_.

But wait, now that he comes to think of it—didn’t the man write a song about _Glasgow_, a couple of years back? How _marvellously_ apropos.

“Wait, Dickie, love,” Taron slurs, stopping in his tracks and startling Richard—who doesn’t get the memo quite immediately, takes another step and is yanked back awkwardly by the arm he has wrapped around Taron’s shoulders. Ridiculous man. “Need to look for summat. Hold on.”

He whips his phone out from his pocket and opens the Spotify app. He doesn’t quite remember the title, but he knows it has something to do with Glasgow. And the river Clyde, maybe? He tentatively types the word into the search bar and… _bingo_. There it is. _Feather on the Clyde_.

He does what he’d normally deem as _the obnoxious thing_, and turns the volume on his iPhone all the way up. Then again, a weird twist of fate has made it so that no-one seems to be around, tonight, strolling on the riverside. A soft melody starts playing just for the two of them, then, and Taron turns his head slightly to look at Richard.

The man is positively _transfixed_.

_Well, there’s a river that runs through Glasgow_

_And it makes her, but it breaks her_

_And it takes her in two parts_

_And a current just like my blood flows_

_Down from the hills, round aching bones to my restless heart_

“Oh, Duckie…” Richard murmurs, his voice somehow almost as soft as the guitar that’s playing from the phone’s speaker. “This song… Really want tae make me weep, don’t ye?”

Taron spins round so they’re facing each other. Richard is wearing the sweetest smile and his brow is slightly furrowed, and there’s an air to him that just screams adorable, lost-puppy all-round. He’s tipsy, alright—but, most of all, he looks hopelessly _smitten_.

“C’mere, you sappy git,” Taron says, his hands coming up on Richard’s chest, snaking past the half-open, light-brown suede jacket he’s wearing and making a point of cupping each pec, feeling the frantic beat of his heart that, Taron hopes, should only partly be pinned on their alcohol consumption. He moves his palms and arms further up, then, and he brings his hands together behind the nape of Richard’s neck, and he finds himself grinning like the absolute blasted fool in love he is when he feels Richard’s arms close around his middle. Richard is smiling too, even more than he was before—and, God, is any waking moment spent not being held like this by the Scottish version of Prince Charming really worth living?

Swaying to the mellow music, enveloped in a tight embrace with one of the two men of his dreams, Taron finds he’s completely and utterly at peace with the universe. The film is going great—not long until they’re done, actually—and his love life is going even _better_. He doesn’t remember feeling so adored and content ever in his life, and it’s simply wonderful. Worth going through all the _heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to_, in-fucking-deed.

Apart from the tune playing from Taron’s phone, the rest of the city seems to be immersed in the sort of slumber that is normally unusual on a Friday night, but which Taron welcomes passionately. The river Clyde is flowing hard and strong and undisturbed, and it’s lulling his soul, and he feels himself melt into Richard’s touch, and everything’s perfect, and it should really, really last forever.

It does not, of course, because a strong and impressively cold gust ends up rising from the river, and they’re forced to move to a more sheltered area—and ultimately decide to call it a night when Richard tells him how early they need to wake up tomorrow morning to start prepping for the wedding. It’s absolutely ludicrous—so much so that Taron hears himself inquire out loud whether Richard plans to put a full face of make-up on for the occasion, and is eventually forced to shut the hell up when the man reminds him that dressing up in a full kilt outfit and making it look good and proper may well take the same amount of time. God, the fucking kilt. Taron is _definitely_ not ready for that.

As they walk, hand in hand, back to where the Martin is parked, Taron finds himself thinking about what Jamie might be doing, while they’re away. And how it amazing it would be if he could be here as well, sharing this magical night. And then his mind starts to wander, up and away, and he wonders what it would be like if Jamie and Richard were close enough, in sync enough, comfortable enough with each other to… No, impossible, right? Taron knows the two are not _that_ familiar. And it would definitely be too much to ask them to make that effort for his sake. Heck, Taron’s already _extremely_ lucky to have them both be alright with the situation the way it is. Better not push it. It’s nice to think about it, though. _Very _nice.

Soon as he’s sitting back down in the passenger seat—Richard would just _not_ let him drive, dammit—Taron opens his phone up again and finally checks the texts he’s gotten in the past few hours. His enamoured and inebriated state prohibited him from reading or typing any replies out—he’s made a fool of himself _way_ too many times in the past to try that again. Especially since, very fittingly and resonating with his train of thought from only a couple of minutes ago, most of the text he’s got are from _Jamie_.

(9:33 P.M.) **_Hello, sunshine. I love you. I hope you’re having a grand time._**

(10:02 P.M.) **_Hope he got you that mojito. He said he would._**

(10:15 P.M.) **_I love you still. Gonna sound like a sappy bastard, but I miss you like crazy._**

(10:42 P.M.) **_You’ve only been gone less than 24 hours, and I still miss you._**

(10:45 P.M.) **_I miss my lips on you, and my body on yours, and the smell of your skin, and the dimples in your cheeks when you smile._**

Taron feels like his heart might just burst. He has never typed back more quickly in his life.

(11:32 P.M.) **God, I love you, Jamie Bell.**

(11:33 P.M.) **I love you and I miss you too, terribly so. Was just thinking of how wonderful it would be to have you here. I know you’d love it.**

Jamie’s text comes back only a few minutes later, just as Richard is entering a roundabout to take the M8 back to Elderslie.

(11:36 P.M.) **_I’ve been, pet. And I do I love it. James took me up while we were filming _Filth _and we got completely battered on whisky sours. It was grand._**

(11:37 P.M.) **Still can’t believe you’re on first-name terms with James fucking McAvoy and you haven’t thought of introducing me.**

(11:38 P.M.) **_One day, maybe. If you behave._**

(11:39 P.M.) **Thought you knew it by now—I’m the best boy around, baby.**

Jamie sends an ironic angel emoji and Taron laughs and shakes his head at the screen.

A few minutes later, genius strikes again, in the form of the star of Richard Madden’s English folk wet dreams. He opens Spotify again, and he copies and pastes the link to the song into his message app. He also types a bunch of the lyrics out in the next text.

(11:56 P.M.) **And I think of you in Glasgow, ‘cause you’re all that’s safe, you’re all that’s warm in my restless heart.**

Jamie sends him a string of lovehearts, and another text.

(11:57 P.M.) **_Didn’t know this one. I love it already. And I love you, you old sap._**

Just as they pull into Dick and Pat’s driveway, Taron replies.

(11:58 P.M.) **Wish you were here.**

Jamie’s reply comes in _very_ quickly.

(11:59 P.M.) **_Is the bed even big enough for three?_**

Taron freezes momentarily. Then, his eyes instinctively come up to look at Richard, who’s just turned the car off and is now picking his phone up from the small tray behind the gear stick. It lights up, and Taron can swear on his Mam’s life he’s just read _Jamie_’s name on the screen.

What the _fuck_ is going on.

(00:00 A.M.) **Oh, I think it might well be. Sleep tight, my love.**

(00:00 A.M.) **_You too, pet. Looking forward to it._**

Taron finds himself smirking profusely as he grabs Richard’s hand while they walk back towards the house. Maybe there’s a chance, after all.

** _Part IV - Been in sticky situations, I won't bore you with the filth_ **

_Saturday_

The cream-white marquee pops out of the green grass it stands on, almost glistening in the unusually bright Scottish summer day. The sunlight is a golden hue that looks like love and smells like anticipation—the whole atmosphere is positively pregnant with it, in fact. There are people buzzing about everywhere in front of the tens of rows of white seats, and Taron can practically _feel_ the rolled R’s vibrating right into his guts while he’s walking among the infinite men and women dressed to the nines, the crowd of whimsical hats looking like flowers that should not be put together in the same bouquet, but look absolutely stunning anyway.

The main event of the day for Taron is, of course, absolutely _not_ the bride.

Nor the groom, in fact.

Not even the dessert buffet that they were promised on the e-mail that Conor—Richard’s childhood friend who is tying the knot today—sent out last week.

Not even the fucking _open bar_, goddamnit.

No, Taron’s gaze and his whole attention span are magnetically attracted to one thing, and one thing only.

And that is _Richard_.

In a bloody_ kilt_.

Saying Taron is going absolutely insane over the fact that this outfit is still very much a _thing_ in 2018 is an understatement. Not like he’s unaware or disrespectful of Scottish custom in the slightest—he’s simply just losing his mind at the sight of his broad-accented lover in the full-on traditional outfit.

Watching Richard put the blasted thing on after their morning shower had been _excruciating_, to say the least. The pieces of the ensemble were so _many_ and the order in which they should be put on simply _impossible_ to modify—Pat was fussing a lot over her thirty-two-year-old _boy_, bringing strong opinions to the table about how tight or loose the tartan skirt should be, how he should tie his ghillie brogues, which sporran he should pick (_wear the horse hair one, sweetheart, it’s so much nicer_). Oh, and she also took it upon herself to attach the kilt pin (_granddad’s favourite_), and make sure it weighted the tartan down exactly how it should—and then the jacket was on, and that also was the moment when Taron breathed a sigh of relief, because it had already taken twenty full minutes of him standing in his new Tom Ford robin’s egg blue suit and already wearing his matching trilby for Richard to get into all _that_.

But it wasn’t over, apparently, because, just as Taron thought it may well be, he’d once again found himself goggling at the middle-aged, ginger-haired woman handing her son a fucking _knife_, that he proceeded to slip in his right sock, careful to leave the black and shining silver hilt showing against his pale calf muscle—a _sgian_, Taron was told the thing is called. The presence of a _weapon_ in Richard’s sock only heightens Taron’s awareness of the fact that the outfit is a whole thing, but it’s not the most important detail he retains of this whole endeavour they’ve embarked on, this morning.

In fact, there is one simple piece of information that is burning a hole through his mind—and it hasn’t stopped for even one second, from the moment they both got out of the front door and Pat and Dick insisted to take a picture of the pair of them, to the present, when they’re finally sitting down somewhere in the third row of the groom’s side of the ceremony. It might well be the worst-kept secret in the world, but Taron cannot for the life of him stop thinking about it—Richard is wearing absolutely _nothing_ under his kilt.

Taron quickly found he could barely sit still for the duration of the short car ride there. They did, indeed, take the Martin—any excuse for Richard to peacock in front of his friends, even if he will forever categorically deny it being his aim—and the drive had been positively painful (Richard driving, again, always is _something else_), and Taron actually considered either asking Richard to stop the car and going out for a breath of fresh air, or moving the damned tartan to the side and having his way with Richard on the front seat of the stupid two-hundred-grand fuck-off death machine. He did not, however, do either of those things—that would have been _ridiculous_—resolving that opening the car window, sticking to heavy, controlled breathing, and hiding his crotch beneath the gift they got the happy couple, that was very fittingly sitting in his lap, would probably be a safer and less melodramatic choice for the time being.

Nevertheless, now that the ceremony is about to start and they are finally sitting down in the beautiful white chairs, there’s quite a bit of _manspreading_ going on, and Richard’s thigh and calf are pressed flush against Taron’s, and the kilt is front and centre all over again—and it’s, in a word, _painful_. Richard is wearing Aviators and a huge grin on his stupid beautiful face, and Taron swears he can feel the Frank Sinatra baby blues piercing him through the dark lenses. Then Richard is reaching out over Taron’s shoulders and caressing the side of his head and kissing his temple, sending a shiver down his spine. His beard is deliciously prickly, and his chosen scent for the occasion is something woody and fancy and new and _exciting_ that Taron does not recognise (and that he already kind of wants to steal).

“Ye alright, Golden Boy?” Richard murmurs, smiling against his skin.

“Never better,” Taron declares, leaning into Richard’s touch, not really thinking about the fact that people might definitely be staring. He does mind them _listening_ to what he’s about to say, though. Not for everyone’s ears, that is. So, in the spirit of maintaining at least an ounce of privacy, he decides to turn and whisper in Richard’s ear.

“I never knew how much I needed to see your smug Scottish arse in a fucking kilt, by the way. You’re _killing_ me, Dickie.”

He then makes a point of caressing Richard’s thigh—careful of keeping the action to PG-worthy levels, but still making the hard fabric that is now stretched by Richard’s open thighs bend a little downwards, loosening it a bit, and revealing the definite bulge underneath. Oh,_ perfect_.

“Definitely want you to have your wicked way with me while still wearing _this_, before the day is done,” Taron declares, still in an undertone, keeping up the eye contact from beneath his vintage orange sunnies, and squeezing Richard’s thigh a little tighter still.

Richard is the first to break, turning to face the altar and unequivocally _biting his lip_, while he grabs a hold of Taron’s hand on his thigh and moves it slightly away from where it has been slowly crawling towards the promised land. “You’re _too much_, T, y’know that?” Richard sounds raspy, and he even looks flustered for a second.

Wow. Is it something Taron said? He can’t help but grin, satisfied.

“Why, thank you, Madden. I do try.”

Richard silently chuckles and shakes his head. For a good ten seconds, he seems to be considering crossing his legs, but ultimately decides against it—a light shift in his seat and the most imperceptible pained expression momentarily distorting his lineaments are definite proof of that.

Just as Taron is about to hit Richard with another thirsty comment, he’s cut off by the sound of a dozen bagpipes. And here Conor comes, strolling down the aisle with his best man and groomsmen—and, God, aren’t they a _remarkable_ bunch. The kilts are _definitely_ doing it for Taron today. He decides to shut up and enjoy the show, then, because this is not something he gets to see often, and he is determined to cherish every minute of it.

After a few minutes spent positively _staring_ at the redheads crowding the right side of the altar and mumbling away in the incomprehensible rough Glasgow vernacular that is giving Taron cold sweats—for some reason, _Jamie _pops into Taron’s mind. He hasn’t heard back from him since he sent a picture of Richard’s full outfit out to him a few hours back—the accompanying text somewhere along the lines of _this man has a fucking knife in his sock, and I don’t quite know how I feel about it_—so he decides to ever so discreetly fish his phone out of his pocket. They’re all still sitting down, anyways, and the bride, Heather, is nowhere to be seen yet—so it’s still safe to do so.

Taron feels Richard’s gaze on him the whole time, witnessing his discovery of the fact that Jamie has indeed been texting him back, and him turning off sound and vibration for the ceremony is entirely to blame for the lack of feedback.

(11:09 A.M.) **_God-fucking-damn._**

(11:10 A.M.) **_How are you even sitting still right now?_**

(11:11 A.M.) **_Also, I don’t understand. Why do I find this so hot?_**

Taron’s heart fills at this and he smiles down at his screen, because Jamie _knows_ and _sympathises_, and it’s somehow sending shivers down his spine. Or, well, that might actually be due to the fact that Richard is now breathing dangerously close to his ear and murmuring in it. Bit o’ both, possibly.

“Oh, so our Bernie’s enjoying the kilt too, eh?” _Smug bastard_. “Put your phone away, won’t ye, darling? The ceremony’s about to start.”

“Only a _little bit_,” Taron lies out of his teeth, covering his phone to hide the texts. “And I will, in a minute, _darling_. Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he adds—and, by the time he realises what he’s just said, it’s already too late.

“Not wearing any, _mo ghràdh_, remember?” Such a panoply of rolled R’s in just one short, quick, yet painstakingly weighted, reply. Taron doesn’t quite know what to say to that, because a rush of blood is threatening to set his nether region on fire. He finds _some_ words, in the end.

“Fuck you forever for that, Richard.” Not really his best work, but it’ll have to do.

“You wish.” Ah, _dang_.

“I most certainly intend to. In _public_, if at all possible.”

That finally shuts Richard up. Taron’s lips curl into a triumphant smile, and he gets to typing out a reply to Jamie.

(11:39 A.M.) **You and me both, my love. The sitting still part is obviously not going great.**

He hits _send_, but it immediately feels like he’s forgotten something.

(11:39 A.M.) **Thinking of you. Can’t wait to see you on Monday. I love you, dancing boy.**

Taron pockets his phone just as the bagpipes start to play once again—for the bride, this time, and everyone is _much _more excited than they were the first time round. Everyone—Richard and Taron included—gets up and turns to the entrance to the marquee, eager. Taron is now turning his back on Richard slightly, and Richard’s hands are resting on his hips, pulling him into a discreet embrace, and Taron wonders if it’s even possible to be so in love.

By the time Conor and Heather get to their vows, Taron is a weeping, blabbering mess. _Obviously_.

Richard is squeezing his hand tight and planting soft kisses on the side of his head, and Taron has lost count of the amount of unspoken _I love you_’s those contain. He’s just spent a blissful half-hour _not_ thinking about the kilt and revelling in the most beautiful celebration of love and tradition he’s taken part of since his Mam’s nuptials—and he’s completely and utterly at peace with himself, Richard, and the rest of the world.

Which is why it feels almost _insulting_ when they all have to walk back down the aisle and out of the marquee to wait for the bride and groom to make their grand exit—for the simple reason that Taron is reminded that Richard Madden in a kilt is a thing that is happening today, and that the knowledge of it makes the whole “thinking straight” business he’s usually so good at incredibly fucking difficult.

There Richard goes, strolling in front of him, the tartan flowing right and left with every step, his broad shoulders clad in the black jacket, the hilt of the almost unconceivable _sgian_ peeking out from his sock against his right calf muscle… and it all gets a bit too much, for a second.

Standing outside for the three short minutes it takes for Heather and Conor to walk out of the marquee, Taron feels like he’s been catapulted into a Beckett adaptation. Except the happy couple fortunately _do_ arrive, _thank God_, and there’s whooping and cheering and rose petals everywhere, and then they’re all finally, _finally_ walking up to the main building of the mansion where the wedding is being held, and Taron’s hand is in Richard’s, and he’s urgently whispering the words _I want you_—maybe a little too loud for such a public context, but Taron is quite frankly way past the point of caring.

Richard doesn’t reply immediately, preferring to tread in silence instead. He’s clearly been pondering something, though, because, by the time they’re walking up the steps to enter the mansion, his grasp on Taron’s hand is tightening, and he’s steering them towards the left side of the building, while everyone else is heading right, toward the welcome cocktails. It takes Taron approximately half a second to realise they’re heading for the toilets—the _accessible_ toilets, in fact (no dangerous cubicle business), and he fails to repress a very loud sigh at the thought of what’s about to happen in there.

The light turns on automatically and the door closes, and Richard’s hand is quick on the lock, and Taron’s back is against the door, and Richard just _stands_ there in front of him looking amused—and it’s as infuriating as it’s knee-buckling, really. Taron stares at Richard, his mouth slightly agape, mind-bending desire seeping through every fibre of his being, and he feels almost paralysed by it. He can’t think, can’t speak, can’t move, and can’t _wait_ for Richard to do something about it.

Richard seems to have read his mind, then, because he takes a step and closes the painful distance between them, kissing Taron furiously, claiming his mouth over and over, breathing hard into the embrace. Richard is warm, _so warm_, and when he breaks the kiss and moves slightly away from him, Taron can’t help but notice that the fabric of the kilt is not at all straight and flush against his crotch anymore—Richard’s erection is now one step closer to being fully freed and taken care of, and Taron just wants to drop to his knees at the realisation. When he starts sliding his back against the door to do just that, Richard _tuts_ at him and presses his shoulders against the wooden door to stop him.

“Oh, no, no, no, love,” he coos. “We don’t want this lovely piece to be ruined, now, do we?”

Taron groans and momentarily curses himself for choosing an extravagant light-coloured suit for today’s special occasion—but then Richard’s hands are on him, undoing his belt and unzipping his trousers, and he’s sliding them delicately off, all the while kneeling to undo his shiny new light-brown Oxfords. He moves back up again, and takes the trilby off, too, in one swift move. Taron feels self-conscious for a second, but the way Richard is looking at him quickly makes every stupid hair concern disappear into thin air.

When Taron’s finally out of his shoes and slacks, the top half of his body looking considerably overdressed against the simple tight white briefs hugging his bottom, Taron is finally able to take matters into his own hands. He flips them around, so now it’s Richard’s back against the door—and Richard sports a wicked grin on his face, and he’s biting his goddamn lip once more, and he looks like he’s enjoying this way too much—but, again, Taron simply _cannot_ bring himself to give a toss.

He sinks to his knees in front of Richard, then, just as a worshipper in front of a deity would. And it’s fitting, really, so fitting, because that’s exactly what he feels he has turned into at the sight of Richard in the fucking Highlands Sunday best. He has never been this weak for anything in his life, ever. The word _kink_ briefly crosses his mind, and he mentally swears, because he knows himself well enough to realise that he’ll definitely be turning this into a _thing_.

Every coherent thought is wiped out of Taron’s mind completely when he finally makes a point of raising the heavy front flap of the kilt (which, helpfully, Richard immediately grabs and keeps lifted) to reveal Richard’s cock, impossibly hard, standing proud in the sea of tartan around it. It’s such a moment, such a _sight_—and Taron cannot really stop himself from commenting on it out loud.

“I’d quite like you to fuck my face right this instant, if you don’t mind,” Taron declares, looking up at Richard and wondering how he’s managing to sound this business-like when he’s inches away from Scotland’s finest piece of meat, whose owner is resting against a bathroom door, panting and groaning for _him_. Richard reaches a hand down to caress Taron’s hair, and the blue in his eyes is completely clouded with a sheen of lust, and his pupils are dilated—his stare is, in a word, _hungry_.

“Hmmm, ‘appy to oblige,” Richard purrs, jutting his hips forward to meet Taron’s parted lips. “Ye wonderful, _wonderful_ lad—oh, _fuck_, Taron, Jesus Christ…” he curses as he throws his hand back against the door, his eyes shutting, because Taron has now taken him into his mouth, and he’s still looking up at him, and he’s _loving_ what he sees.

Richard Perfect-Hair-Extraordinaire Madden is looking hot and bothered and positively _dishevelled _already, and Taron is just speechless at the sight of it (and that, weirdly enough, has absolutely nothing to do with the mouthful of cock he’s currently nursing). He moans against Richard’s cock while he slides it right down to the back of his throat, and Richard brings a second hand to his head, effectively dropping the kilt flap he’s been holding up—and Taron thinks he might die and go straight to hell, because he’s now completely _covered_ by the fucking kilt.

Richard’s voice is muffled by the thick fabric, but it’s very obvious he’s now saying _oh, good boy, Taron, such a good boy for me_, and he’s moving his hips almost imperceptibly, and Taron’s cock really can’t help but twitch in his briefs at that. He palms himself through the thin cotton and groans loudly—a little too loudly, perhaps, for such a _public_ setting, but this only seems to get Richard off more, because he’s now fully thrusting himself into Taron’s mouth, and it is, quite simply, _a lot_. Taron wonders whether he’s ever heard Richard sound like he’s sounding right now, or if the kilt thing is actually doing something for him, too. The good old Scottish boost of confidence, and all that.

One of Richard’s hands—the one holding his head from above the kilt—is suddenly not there anymore. Taron notices this only fleetingly, though, because the remaining hand tangles a little more in his hair and gently tugs at it, while Richard increases the speed of his thrusts. Just as Taron is concentrating all his strength in his throat, trying not to cough (because his mission _cannot_ be jeopardised by something as mundane as a gag reflex), Richard’s hand leaves his hair and proceeds to lift the kilt flap that’s covering his head, and when Taron looks up, well, he can’t quite believe his eyes.

Richard is smiling down at him, a _sinful_ grin that is actively destroying his plump lips and obliterating Taron’s sanity at the same time, and in-between them is a _phone_, and Richard is quite possibly _filming_ this, and, wow, the words _smile for Jamie, my love_ are being uttered in-between heavy breaths, and Taron really, really wants to smile for Jamie, but how can he, really, when he’s drowning in tartan and his mouth is full of cock. He slides it out of his mouth and angles his head so that it rests on his face. He then looks straight into the camera and gives his best shot at the mischievous smirk that made an entire nation’s knickers drop when _Kingsman _first came out—or, at least, so he’s been told.

“Hi, dancing boy. Wedding was boring. Just keepin’ busy.”

Taron doesn’t quite know why he finds this whole thing so hot. Probably something about knowing that Richard is thinking of Jamie in such an intimate, _explicit _way, and right when they’re doing _this_, of all things. Probably just the fact that Richard is thinking about Jamie at all, actually. Good God.

“You’re filthy, _mo gràth_,” Richard says, putting his phone back into his jacket and _growling_ as Taron’s lips close around the tip of his cock once more.

“And you, sir, are a perv,” Taron comes up again to declare, the salty taste of precum still in his mouth, “and, by the way, I swear on St. Andrew and his cross that if you don’t cut it with the Gaelic I’m going to fucking tease you until you scream for mercy.”

“What made ye think _you _are calling the shots today, bonny lad? My land, my rules,” Richard says, and bends down to kiss Taron’s neck and tugs a little on the hair on the back of his head to make him stand up.

“Oh, really?” Taron replies, tilting his head appreciatively, failing to fight his breath catching at how serious and commanding Richard’s tone has gotten. He finds he’s extremely glad that he’s managed to slip the stupid knife out of Richard’s sock, then, because he now gets to put it between his teeth and watch Richard’s brow furrow and then relax again, an unmistakeable air of understanding dawning on him.

“_Fuck_, Taron. Seriously?” Richard grabs the still sheathed _sgian_ by the hilt and pulls it out of Taron’s mouth with a swift movement of his wrist.

“_Seriously_,” Taron confirms, and takes a few steps back towards the sink, so that now he’s standing directly in front of the big mirror above it. “Had a thing for knives since _Kingsman_, actually.”

Richard looks like he’s about to catch fire. Taron is feeling cheeky, and decides to dust the posh spy accent for the occasion.

“Are you going to stand there all day, or—”

“If ye bring fucking Colin Firth into this, I’m walking away right this instant.” The way he says _Colin Firth_, in a slightly different inflection than his obvious Glaswegian, makes Taron think of Ewan McGregor for some reason—and that, if at all possible, gets him even more revved up.

“The absolute _fuck_ you are. But you _are_ right. _So_ right,” Taron says as he’s grabbing the immaculate porcelain of the sink and bending over it ever so slightly, his arse pushed backwards, trying his best to look enticing and not just completely ridiculous. “Now kindly cut the coy boy shite, come here, use your stupid knife on me, and just _fuck me_, will ya?”

Richard just raises an eyebrow, then—which screams _oh, you bossy little shit_—and Taron immediately knows he’s won. He watches as Richard pulls the _sgian_ out of its sheath, which is quickly discarded onto the floor, and closes the distance between them. He positions himself behind Taron and reaches around him to graze his lips with the sharp end of the knife, and Taron is already burning up, but then Richard speaks, and it’s deep and rough and accented, and, in every way, _too much_.

“This what y’want, mah dir’y laddie?” the disgustingly enticing brogue comes in, and Richard presses his body flush against Taron’s back, effectively grinding his kilt-clad cock against Taron’s cheeks. “Want me tae scratch yer lovely wee outfit with mah blade, do ye?”

Taron just nods and whimpers when Richard brings the blunt side of the blade to his throat, presses hard there while he moves his hips into Taron’s arse—and that’s when their eyes meet in the mirror, Taron’s green and Richard’s blue drowning in pitch black arousal.

“I could _cut_ ye, y’know,” Richard plays on, “I could make ye bleed if ye’re not careful…”

Taron doesn’t quite know what to say to that—he kind of hates that he finds it so freaking hot, but he just does.

“Be a wee cryin’ shame if that happened, too,” Richard doubles down, his mouth so close to Taron’s ear he can now feel the prickly hairs of his beard scratching the sensitive skin behind it. “’Cause then I’d be forced tae lick it off you, wouldn’t I?”

Taron’s eyes widen, and Richard grins while he’s biting his earlobe.

“Oh _God_, Richard, you are _killing me_.”

“Let’s fill you up, then, pretty boy. Shall we?” Richard says, still against his ear, and he’s reaching around Taron to pass the knife from his right hand to his left, and he grazes Taron’s throat with the tip of it as he does so.

“Fucking _final_—” Taron tries to say, but Richard is now shoving two of his fingers into Taron’s mouth, gaze still locked on his in the mirror, and Taron simply has to oblige and lick and suck and swirl his tongue around them, and the fucking knife is back against his throat, and Richard is praising him endlessly, _good boy, Taron, look at ye, look at this talented mouth_. The way he says “mouth”, like _mooth_, constantly has Taron on the edge of coitus at the best of times, but right here, right now it’s actually threatening to make his whole body go up in flames.

Just as the fingers are out of Taron’s mouth and his lips are still parted, Richard brings the knife up and says, “Open up for me, love,” and Taron just obeys, no questions asked—he really has no mental strength left for _questions_, at this point, and he takes the knife between his teeth and clenches his jaw to keep it in place. The words _good boy_ are uttered again, then, and Taron feels Richard tugging at his briefs to get them off, finally freeing his cock, which he genuinely doesn’t think has ever been as hard as it is in this moment.

Richard then kneels down behind him and his hands are spreading Taron’s cheeks, and his _tongue _is quickly lapping away at the sensitive ring of muscle, and then his slicked up digits are there too, circling and pressing in, and it’s _magical_. As well as _raw_ and _dirty_ and hotter than anything Taron’s ever experienced in his life.

He is effectively forced to look at himself in the mirror while Richard is opening him up, and he really wishes he’d loosened his tie and gotten out of the Tom Ford completely, now, because he can see himself sweating profusely. All he wants to do is moan Richard’s name out loud, but he can’t—what with the fact that he has a fucking _knife_ between his teeth—so he whines and groans against the metal, and hisses and tastes a little blood when his tongue accidentally meets the sharp blade. He can’t help but arch his back into Richard’s touch and try and get his fingers in deeper, which earns him a _bite_ on his right cheek. Taron cries out and almost opens his mouth at that, risking potentially dropping the knife _and_ disfiguring himself, all in one smooth stroke—but thankfully manages to just close his teeth back on the blade in time to avoid the worst.

“Hmm, I think you’re ready for me, gorgeous,” Richard says, humming appreciatively. His fingers are gone in an instant and he moves back up, planting soft kisses on Taron’s back in his wake and finally getting the suit jacket off him, opening three buttons of his shirt up, and loosening his tie. Taron wants to say a big fat _thank fuck for that_, but, again, his mouth is quite full still, so he settles on a loud sigh instead.

What Taron sees in the mirror then—Richard Madden in a full kilt outfit spitting into his right hand, lifting the heavy fabric back up and purposefully stroking his cock with his craftily lubricated hand—is possibly more erotic than the entire history of pornography put together.

Taron then feels Richard press at his entrance, and he finds it surprisingly easy to take him in, slowly but surely, which he wasn’t expecting at all, considering they’ve not had access to actual lube. They have, though, been having a _lot_ of sex in the past few days—once this morning too, actually, so maybe his body has decided to just be prepared for it at any given time, really.

Richard filling him inch by inch is delicious and unbearable and wonderful—only just a tad excruciating, but just because of how _slow_ it is—and when he gets as deep as he can his hand is back on the hilt of the _sgian_, and Taron is relieved to finally be able to open his mouth and deliberately moan.

“Shh, love, that’s a wee bit loud, don’t ye think?” Richard coos, right before grunting almost as loudly himself. “So tight, so _perfect_, love…”

“Fuck, Richard, fuck fuck fuck…” Taron murmurs, his mind blanking completely at the sensation of Richard’s cock just _resting_ inside him.

“I’m gunnae need you to stay very still, alright, my love? Let _me_ set the pace? Could _cut_ yerself, otherwise…” Richard growls, just as he’s bringing the knife back up to rest against Taron’s throat. Taron’s lips part in anticipation, and then Richard’s off, thrusting himself achingly slowly in and out of Taron’s stretched-out hole, and he’s grunting and moaning and being generally very explicit, and _the kilt, the kilt, the_ _kilt_ is brushing against Taron’s arse and the back of his thighs, a constant reminder of the fact that Richard has been walking around balls naked all day, and that Taron is now getting _exactly what he wanted_ to quench his thirst for the man, and the satisfaction is utter and complete and—oh, _fuck_, Richard is pressing the _sgian_ harder and harder against Taron’s throat at every push of his hips, and Taron truly doesn’t know how he’s going to last even thirty seconds at this pace.

“Fucking…killing…me…Rich…God…damn…,” Taron stutters at each thrust, closing his eyes for a moment to and Richard just _laughs_ against his ear and nibbles away at his lobe.

“Eyes open for me, _mo gràth_,” Richard orders in a low, raspy voice, and his pace slows down a tad, and Taron wants to _die_. “I want you tae see how _pretty_ ye look while I fuck you like this. How stunning this blade is against your lovely throat. How easily I could take yer life if I wanted to.”

The words roll off his tongue smoothly, an orchestra of instruments playing together in perfect harmony to create the perfect Highlands symphony—and it’s _filthy_, and it’s _rough_, and it’s _perfect_. For a second, Taron can’t actually believe what Richard just said. More like, he cannot comprehend _why_ the idea of Richard having the power of life and death over him is so bloody enticing—but, once again, it just _is_.

Taron opens his eyes fully, then, and feels Richard’s arm shuffle around his back, an awkward movement that ends up revealing Richard’s bloody _phone_ is now in his hand, and he’s wearing a wicked smile when he says, “Another wee one for Jamie, what d’ye think, love?” Taron just gasps at that, and the knife is pressed a bit harder still against his throat, and he nods ever so slightly, against the blade, giving Richard permission, and he’s pretty sure Richard is taking a lot more than a picture, maybe even _recording_ them again, because he’s now moving deliberately and murmuring dirty nonsense into Taron’s ear—and the idea of _Jamie_ receiving all this is simply _too much_, and Taron’s brain momentarily shuts off.

What makes him spring back to full consciousness is Richard discarding the phone to one side of the sink and picking up the pace once more. It’s much wilder than before, and he’s getting deeper and deeper, now, forcefully shoving himself into Taron, and he’s brushing against his prostate again and _again_, and the blade against Taron’s throat _hurts_, and Richard’s eyes in the mirror are fucking him just as hard as his cock is, and Richard’s biting the side of his neck and then smacking his buttock with his free hand. Fucking hell, _that _combined with the knife makes Taron’s breath catch, trying to hold himself so, so still—but he really has no time to ponder on it, because he’s now seeing actual _stars_, and he simply cannot hold himself back any longer.

“Rich… please… harder… _soclose_…” Taron pleads, and for a second he believes he’s actually going to climax completely untouched, and that’s _amazing_, but then Richard’s hand is there, and that’s even _better_—wonderful warmth wrapping around Taron’s aching length and getting him off in the most perfect way.

“Yes, baby—oh, _fuck_,” Richard stutters, his voice now strained and spent, and Taron recognises that’s a sign the man is almost there. “Come for me sweetheart, come on my hand, my pretty boy…”

Richard’s cock incessantly hitting the sweetest spot inside Taron; Richard’s big, strong hand expertly jerking him off; the bloody knife at Taron’s throat, which is the hottest fucking thing _ever_; the words of praise flowing out of Richard’s mouth—all of that mixed together in a delicious cocktail that is scorching every inch of Taron’s skin and consuming every bone of his body—is precisely what gets Taron over the edge. Before he has time to realise it, he’s shooting hot and hard in Richard’s hand and all over the sink, and he’s flying as high as the motherfucking _rocket_ imagery that has been haunting him for the past three months. His mind goes completely blank, then, and he suspects he might actually be _crying_ some version or other of _fuck, Richard, I love you_, because the knife makes a lot of noise when it falls into the sink and Richard’s hand is on Taron’s mouth, muffling the loud noises he’s making.

Richard has not yet stopped thrusting himself into Taron, and Taron opens his eyes in time to catch Richard’s expression in the mirror changing, his eyes shutting and his head shooting back, and then he feels it—Richard’s sweet release, filling him up completely, and he’s whispering in Taron’s ear in full post-coital bliss, and it sounds like something very close to _I love you so bloody much, bonny boy_.

Getting back to the ceremony in one piece after all that is, in a word, _tough_.

Taron has no idea how long they were in the goddamned bathroom but, if he has to take a wild guess, he’d say approximately half an hour. Or, at least, it’s what he reads on Rory and his boyfriend Kyle’s faces when Richard and Taron finally join the wedding reception. Yes, that Rory, the one from the rooftop bar—turns out he’s here too, because of course he would be. 

Taron distinctly feels like his legs might give way any minute now, and he’s _definitely_ wobbling. But whatever. It was well worth it.

As the two men hand them a glass of champagne each, Richard is all smiles and tight banter and he looks perfectly put-together once again, the goddamned smooth bastard. Except, that is, for the single bead of sweat dripping off the side of his neck—which Taron really, really hopes no-one else noticed.

After the conventional small talk, Rory finally asks the million dollar question around their whereabouts for the last _hour_—turns out that Taron really underestimated the power of the kilt, huh?—and Richard launches into a story about how a cigarette break turned into spending a little quality time, just the two of them.

Taron is unsure of how intimate Rory and Richard are, and how much or how often they talk, but he's extremely grateful to realise that Rory is electing to dismiss Richard’s way-too-detailed depiction of a conversation that Taron and he are supposed to have had in the shade of a juniper tree, and he just pats Richard on the back, affectionately. Then, Rory exchanges a glance with Kyle, before suddenly inquiring about the price tag of the stupid Bond car, and while doing so oh-so-imperceptibly steering Richard away from Taron and Kyle. Richard’s eyes find Taron’s, then, and written all over the man’s gaze are the words _I love you_ and _don't panic_.

So naturally, when he’s left alone with Kyle, Taron starts panicking in full.

After all, it’s now plain as day they _have_ been found out, and a touch of bashfulness manages to tint his cheeks pink when he thinks about the fact that some people might well have been listening to what was going on in the bathroom. Jesus. That idea is incredibly mortifying and absolutely fucking _thrilling_ at the same time.

Kyle takes a step closer to Taron and moves around so he’s facing him. Taron is almost blinded by the bright blond hair—glistening gold in the lights of the party—and enthralled by the deep chocolate brown eyes—curiously scrutinising him—for the half a second it takes the (gorgeous) man in front of him to speak.

“Taron,” he starts, bringing a hand up to touch his shoulder. Taron’s breath catches in his throat.

“Hmm-hmm?”

“Don’t worry,” Kyle says, affectionately. “I’m also _extremely_ weak for the kilt. Every time I see Rory in one, I can’t drag him into a bathroom quick enough.”

Oh, well, thank _God_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are by Taylor Swift (sue me), Passenger (twice over), and the most Scottish boi the music scene has to offer these days—Gerry Cinnamon. It only seemed appropriate.
> 
> Taron overpacking is my headcanon from back in [Patience](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19315777/chapters/45945250%20rel=), and I’m not even one bit sorry for recycling it—I find it _way_ too funny.
> 
> Richard driving a Martin is the answer to everyone’s Bond wet dreams about the man—so you’re very welcome for that.
> 
> The Jamiroquai [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EeJITezVmnk%20rel=) I referenced is one of my main inspirations for the title of this whole bloody thing. Three is _really_ not a crowd, sometimes.
> 
> The _meet the parents_ moment is probably the bit I’ve had the most fun with. The idea of Taron getting to chat with Pat and Dick Madden, and getting to discuss the goddamned [couples’ dinner](https://ew.com/movies/2019/06/03/taron-egerton-richard-madden-rocketman-secrets/) at Elton’s place that Richard and Taron attended, the absence of a Madden family tartan, and Pat’s colourful [nicknames](https://www.thesun.co.uk/tvandshowbiz/7690240/the-bodyguard-richard-madden-nickname-late-late-show/%20rel=) for her husband and son—all of this really, was simply _irresistible_.  
The absence of graduation photos obviously refers to Doctor _goddamned_ Madden’s most recent [accolade](https://twitter.com/richardmupdates/status/1147108112924598272%20rel=), that he received from the Royal Conservatory of Scotland in the summer of 2019. Baby boy was very happy, since he didn’t get to attend his own graduation ceremony, back in the day. Hence, no photos.
> 
> The “absolute gangster” line is all Egerton's fault—comes directly from the comment he left under [this picture](https://www.instagram.com/p/B23kD5KlShP/?igshid=1u5grae78qpxj). So, Taron knows Pat. And it makes my heart sing.
> 
> The [Red Sky Bar](https://www.redskybar.com/%20rel=) is a real place, of course, and it looks amazing—and I want to go there, like, _yesterday_. Might have stolen their description of the view on the Clydeside shipyards almost word for word, I should now confess.
> 
> The Gaelic and Passenger are my own fanservice to myself. Taron speaking Welsh, however, is very much a [real thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FpBA5gPcsGY%20rel=) that makes me swoon uncontrollably. (Bonus Luke Evans in that video, because I love you).
> 
> Taron Egerton being weak for the bloody kilt is all of us. Jamie Bell commenting on it via text and dying back in London is, also, all of us. Pat Madden making a point of completing the outfit with the blasted _sgian_ is, quite obviously, the catalyst for the whole knifeplay thing. Well, her and maybe [this picture](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/29/29/1a/29291a0d834bcf41fbca36889949d49d.jpg). He really _has_ had a thing for knives since _Kingsman_.
> 
> And, let me just say, none of this would have been possible without [supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof)’s precious insight about the traditional kilt outfit. Thank you, my love. And sorry-not-sorry for the Gaelic. Love you a lot.
> 
> The porn, well… I sincerely hope you enjoyed it, because I think I _cannae_ do any better than this. Thanks again to [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=) for guiding me through the conception of all this, pointing out bits that worked and bits that absolutely did not, dying over and over reading and editing this—but, perhaps most importantly, for giving me _bonny boy_. This is definitely your fault too, so… Bless. You.
> 
> These notes are starting to get ridiculously long, and I have the burning sensation of having forgotten a whole lot of things to say and people to thank. If any of you feel like I’ve omitted something, please absolutely do let me know—and also pin the forgetfulness on me writing these notes at 1:35 A.M. on a Sunday night, not having the energy to go through the whole 12k words for the fifteenth time, because I kind of like my sanity the way it is, really—cracked, but not (yet) completely shattered.
> 
> In all this, Richard is apparently thinking about Jamie a whole lot. But what does our favourite Billingham dancing boy make of all these exchanges between himself and our Dickie? Watch this space for an answer, on your weekly installment of _oh-my-God-what-if-maybe-I-do-actually-love-two-men-at-the-same-time_.
> 
> Peace out, people. It’s been a trek, but we made it through.
> 
> Love,
> 
> C xx


	11. 11. Jamie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s always that one Elton John song that will forever get you.
> 
> Jamie Bell’s just happens to be the one about a certain _pilot_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *impersonates Taron as Elton dressed as Queen Elizabeth I* ‘ello ‘ello. G’day. *end of the impersonation* How are you lovely people on this fine Tuesday? Honestly, these deadlines are starting to wreck me. But it’s always such an accomplishment when we get here—I realise it’s actually so bloody worth every second of sleep lost on this. I wish this was my actual day job, goddamnit.
> 
> Anyways. Back to us. Back to the real stuff. Back to our trainwreck of a story.
> 
> Back to [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=) doing a very early beta work and put a literal bug in my ear by saying something along the lines of “this feels kind of short” and “maybe this needs some more porn”. So I hesitated for like, what, five minutes? And then I wrote more porn. Eh. What can I say. I’m weak. All I’m trying to say is—don’t blame me for part II. Blame [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=). (I love you.)
> 
> Please enjoy a couple of slices of the life of Jamie Bell—two flashbacks, one present-day, right after Scotland. Do y’all remember _Scotland_? What a fun time that was. 
> 
> Alright, then. Let’s dive into Jamie’s mind once more, shall we?

** _Part I – Through a glass eye your throne is the one danger zone _ **

_“My favourite Elton John song is a song called _Take Me To The Pilot_, which is on that second album— it’s on the _Elton John_ album. It’s just like, a funky track. I love it.”_ – Jamie

_Flashback – the very end of September_

They’ve just recorded _Goodbye Yellow Brick Road_ and Jamie’s still buzzing from being in the recording booth. Worst fucking day for it, too. He’s had a sore throat for the past few days—because autumn in London is unkind to everybody anyway—and the constant changes in temperature have meant he has no fucking clue what to wear on the daily. Seriously, it’s like the gods roll the dice every day, and Jamie gets it wrong every single time. Thick jumpers when it’s over 20°C outside, which result in him breaking a sweat by lunchtime, and light T-shirts and a jacket when it’s absolutely fucking _baltic_, which result in him freezing his balls off as soon as he gets out of the house—and he’s usually already late, so the thought of going back inside to change doesn’t even cross his mind.

But anyway. Sore throat or not, Jamie loved every bloody minute he spent recording the song. It was absolutely _mind-bending_, in fact—something he’ll definitely be telling his boy about, soon as he sees him, next week. Jamie fleetingly spares a thought for how much Marilyn Manson Jack must have listened to in his most tender years, given his mother’s terrible taste in partners (after Jamie, of course), and his skin crawls for a second—Evan still unironically loves his music, which is something Jamie finds quite difficult to wrap his head around. But then, well, George Harrison smiles down at him from the black and white portrait hanging in the mixing room—and everything’s alright again.

Taron is on _fire_ today, as per, and he’s on a bloody roll, too. Jamie’s main reason to come down today was to do his own bit—which was exciting enough as it was—but, frankly, sitting next to an over-excited Dexter Fletcher and hyping his main man up while he does what has effectively become _his thing_ is, if possible, a hundred times better.

Dexter’s hair is even more ruffled than it usually is from the amount of times his hands tangle through it when he absentmindedly gawps at Taron belting out a high note and _owning_ every second of it. When that happens, Jamie’s gaze just travels from Taron to Dexter and back again, and he chuckles, and he revels in how bloody _lucky_ he feels to be witnessing such moments, because they truly are some for the history books.

When Taron is done with _Amoreena_—which Jamie is one hundred percent sure has just been taken to a whole new level of sheer perfection—Dexter presses the intercom button, and his voice resonates in the isolated recording space.

“Well done _again_, ya absolute beast!” He chuckles and claps his hands. Dexter consistently looks like a five-year-old meeting Father Christmas, these days, and Jamie briefly wonders whether he’s ever even seen his _own_ five-year-old this excited about anything. He makes a mental note to replace all records and CDs in Evan’s house with the _Rocketman_ soundtrack, as soon as it’s released. This is the only music little Jack needs to listen to.

Well. Maybe this and Elton’s original stuff. And The Beatles. And Bowie. But that’s really it.

Taron blows them both a kiss and takes his headphones off. “Are we doing another take, or are we moving on?”

Jamie looks back and forth from Dexter to Giles—who are both sporting satisfied expressions and nodding to each other. Dexter goes back on the intercom in less than five seconds.

“That was bloody ace, T. We say let’s go for another song.”

“Splendid,” Taron says, picking up a sheet of paper from somewhere on the floor next to him. “Next up is _Pilot_, right?”

Oh, _Jesus Christ_.

Jamie is momentarily dumbfounded. All this time, he’s had absolutely no idea that his favourite Elton John song made the shortlist for the movie. He only barely stops himself from jumping up and down and making Dex and Giles fear for his sanity, but he can’t really stop his face from lighting up the way it does.

Apropos, Taron’s voice comes in once again, and it’s obvious he’s feeling naughty today, because what comes out of his mouth is, “A little bird told me that this one’s actually little Andrew’s favourite.”

Taron then proceeds to smirk and wink at Jamie, who in turn blushes to the roots of his hair and feels the urgent need to dig himself a hole and just disappear into it. What he also really wants to do is point out that _little Andrew_ is as dead as little Reggie Dwight is—but music is already playing in the background, and Dexter has his phone out, and he’s already started recording Taron, and Jamie keeps it all to himself, because no-one needs a childish Bell rant tainting a moment like this, really.

_If you feel that it’s real_

_I’m on trial_

_And I’m here in your prison_

Jamie listens, enthralled, and finds himself wondering whether any other Bernie lyrics could be more appropriate for his life right now than these are. He settles on the negative, and positively glues his eyes on Taron, who is currently swaying to the music, tight black T-shirt hugging his body, glowing in the dim light of the recording booth. The surging wave of love in Jamie’s heart is more overwhelming than usual, and he’s completely okay with it, too.

His favourite man, singing his favourite song.

What a great fucking day.

** _Part II - Without your arms around me, without you on my skin, without you on my body_ **

_Flashback - Thursday, after Jamie and Richard's date_

Getting out of his cab, Jamie finally comes to terms with the fact that he is a _bit_ drunk. Can't really be sure whether it's the Scotch Ale—damned Highlanders really don't do things halfway—or the nicotine—he might have bummed four or five cigarettes off Scottish Romeo—or, incidentally, Scottish Romeo _himself_ that got him like this. But his head is most definitely not clear, at the moment.

He drags himself from the road to the entrance to his building, then waits the ten _interminable_ seconds it takes to get up to the 25th floor on the high-speed lift, then curses as he drops his keys one or maybe three times before actually managing to open the goddamned door, then he kicks off his shoes and throws his jacket on a hanger—pretty impressed with that one, if he's honest, considering he's scattered clothes all over his floor many a time before when blind drunk—and then, _finally_, he crashes onto his ridiculously gigantic bed. 

The sheets feel soft and _amazing_ against the bits of him that are unclothed, and he immediately decides he needs more of that sensation. So off his T-shirt goes. And then his jeans and socks. He also considers getting rid of his boxers, for a split-second. He runs his hand casually over his crotch, and—_fuck_.

He's hard as a rock.

And—since his bloody common sense had the better of him, tonight—he's also _alone_.

Jamie’s brain knows it's _definitely _for the best that Richard is not on this bed with him, but his subconscious and his mounting arousal seem to passionately disagree.

_Richard_.

That beautiful mind, that gorgeous face, that firm, statuary body…

A rush of memories resurfaces, powerful and destructive. Suddenly, he can feel the warmth of Richard's skin under his fingertips all over again. He still doesn’t know what got into him, when he decided to reach his hand out and touch him—but he sure as hell is glad he didn’t hold himself back, for once.

Thinking of Richard’s lips as they closed on the rim of his pint glass, Jamie palms himself through his boxers. And he _winces_. His erection is throbbing and painful, and his head is heavy with beer and vodka and also a splash of tequila, and he feels himself slowly starting to drift away. So he leans over a mountain of cushions, and he closes his eyes.

Jamie knows that doing this is supremely _wrong_, since Richard, unlike Jude Law back in his teenage bedroom, is not just a pretty face from a magazine—he's a _real_ person in his _real_ life, with whom he has to do _real_ work and have _real_ conversations, not to mention share a _real boyfriend _(even if it’s still weird to think about that last one, some days). Plus, Richard is not technically _his_, and Jamie can bet the man is most likely not interested in him in the slightest—he made that quite clear, didn't he, walking away like that (plus, why _would _he be, when he already has Taron?)—so it feels even more forbidden to imagine those luxurious lips from before suddenly closing around his cock. 

Then a brief spell of lucidness strikes Jamie's psyche. Apart from maybe making being around the man a bit more awkward for himself, and himself only (since, even for all their mutual experience, Richard can't quite read his mind just yet—or, at least, Jamie hopes), this is really harmless. It's not like he's forcing himself on Richard is it?

Plus, he's _drunk_. And he's _horny_. And he's thirty-two, and he feels like a teenager again. 

This is starting to sound _way _too familiar, but Jamie is way past the point of caring, really.

Back to those lips around his cock, then. They’re plump and they’re soft and they’re _perfect_—and they’re eager to take him in, inch by inch. He's sinking deep into the warmth and the wetness, and it's incredible, and…

“Oh, God…” he moans.

_Out loud_. Which is surprising.

He’s never normally vocal, when he’s alone. He’s louder with Taron, but just because Taron _loves_ it (asks for it, in fact), and because he can hardly stop the praise rolling off his tongue when Taron always takes it so bloody well—and he can never seem to get enough.

Other than that, Jamie invoking deities while tossing one off is _definitely _new.

Maybe it’s once again all about how forbidden this imaginary blowjob he’s getting from Richard _goddamned_ Madden still feels, deep down. Richard is the unattainable—the unclimbable mountain, the pitch-black abyss, the mirage oasis in the middle of the desert. 

Maybe it's the thrill of breaking his self-imposed rules.

Maybe it's just because of the epiphany he's had tonight.

Maybe it’s the alcohol.

Whatever it is. Right now, in Jamie’s mind, Richard is on his knees, and he’s definitely eager to please. And being bad has _never_ felt so good.

Jamie’s boxers are gone, and lube is suddenly out, and his left hand is slick with it, and it's grabbing a firm handful of his cock in mere milliseconds, and he's fucking into it as deep as he’s sinking into Richard’s mouth in his imagination. Richard is _loving_ it, and Jamie sees those blue orbs look up at him through impossibly long and thick lashes, and he can even _hear_ the sounds he’s making, and…

“_Fuck_…”

He starts pumping his hand all over his length, methodically slowly—spreading the wetness, applying pressure in all the right spots, teasing the slit with his thumb (and that is Richard’s tongue doing it, in his mind)—and imagining that gorgeous head move up and down on him, tireless and pitiless.

Jamie then puts his right hand against the head of his cock, and suddenly it feels remarkably like he's hitting the back of Richard's throat, and it's _so good, fuck, taking it so well, love_. Not completely sure if he said that last one out loud. Even if he did, though, the only eyes and ears he has on him right now are the ones on his BAFTA statuette—so he thinks he'll be quite canny.

Back to watching his shaft come in and out of that mouth, and seeing Richard smile wickedly up at him—like he was born to do this, like they've done it a thousand times before. It’s _so much_, and Jamie feels a wave of pleasure settle into his groin area and... he’s absolutely not freaking done.

_Slow down, tiger._

Jamie grabs the base of his cock firmly, then, and he squeezes it. _Hard_. It stops the blood flowing for a split-second, and it's _painful—_but oh-so-necessary.

He immediately rewards himself by imagining Richard licking idly at his cock—and he’s _gorgeous_ and clean-shaven and wearing a big _bratty _smile on his face, and he’s _begging_ for it, really. And there comes the overwhelming urge to run a hand through those adorable curls, ever-so-roughly tug on the back of them to expose Richard's neck, and to wrap his hand around it.

Choking has been Jamie's thing as long as he can remember. He’s been fortunate enough to almost always find partners who enjoy it as much as he does—Taron is only the very latest on the list—and he can never seem to get enough of it. Plus, Richard's neck is _way_ too pretty. How long and thick it is, the way his veins protrude and give it an impossibly elegant line—heck, the way his _clavicles _alone constantly threaten to send Jamie to the mental ward. Everything about it is perfect. So Jamie can't help but delve deeper still in his meander into perversion—he grabs the side of Richard's neck with his right hand, holding him still, his index and middle finger coming up on the man's jawline… as he slaps one cheek with his cock. Light, but firm.

There's an actual impact happening, then, as the side of his cock finds the palm of his other hand, instead of Richard’s face. His imagination is running wild, and the hit is every bit as satisfying. So, naturally, he has to do it again. He does it three, no, _four times_ over, and he moans and groans and _roars_ throughout the whole thing, and being loud is just so _satisfying_. He now understands why Taron loves it so much.

Incidentally, thinking of Taron somehow results in Jamie imagining Taron watching him as he does this. He likes to think he would probably enjoy it, seeing him coming undone like this. Except now is most definitely not the time to muse about Taron, really—since Jamie is absolutely _not _done getting imaginary, mind-blowing head from Richard Madden.

He wants Richard’s lips around him again—and they’re promptly there, conveniently, and they’re obliging, and Richard is pliant and eager, and he's _humming_ around his mouthful—and Jamie's right hand in real life starts moving up and down on his length once again, desperately. His palm is slick with lube and precum, and his hand seems to have a mind of its own as he moves back and forth, setting a steady rhythm, and it’s oh-so-_good_. 

Almost _too good_, in fact. It almost feels like it's someone else doing this. Jamie pins it on his way-too-vivid imagination, an excess of alcohol, and Richard's touch and piercing gaze and melodious tones—_God_, how Jamie wants him. Thinking about how it would feel to have him on the bed next to him feels real and scary and _wonderful_, and the mixture of anxiety and arousal helps Jamie get closer and closer to the sweet release he’s chasing—and he’s there, he can feel it, just a few seconds more…

Jamie takes both his hands off himself at once—hates doing it every single time, but he knows how _delicious _the reward will be, so he sucks it up. He indulges his imagination again, though—and now Richard is not on his knees anymore. He’s kneeling on the bed next to Jamie, and he’s naked and glorious, and Jamie wants to claw at his chest and wrap his hands around that stupid pretty neck of his, and just _ruin _him.

Jamie is not sure how or why this is happening, but Richard seems to want to ride him. Jamie is startled and elated and his mind wants to explode when Richard is actually climbing on top of him, and he's magically slick and ready, he’s sinking down on Jamie’s cock with a loud, guttural groan. His hands are back at it at once, then, squeezing much more firmly—and Richard is so beautiful and he's so _tight_ and he's so malleable and it feels so _good_—and Jamie forgets how to breathe for a few seconds. 

Richard's rolling his hips on the rhythm of some slow melody, some mellow acoustic tune that Jamie used to love in his twenties, and the fuck is deep and deliberate, and he’s grabbing Richard's hips to guide him, and he’s watching as the Hellenic sculpture that is the man’s body slowly moves up and down and all around him—and he feels it again, his orgasm mounting, relentless fire consuming him from the inside, and he wants it, he wants it so bad, but…

He thinks he can do it once more. Just _once_ will be enough. He is incredibly impressed with his willpower when he actually manages to take his hands off himself again, pressing closed fists against the sheets in frustration and arching his back, looking for touch and fulfillment—but he knows it'll be one hundred times better if he makes himself work for it. So he breathes in deeply, slowly, settles down, steadying himself, and resuming the very _fun_ exercise of letting his imagination run wild.

The scene has changed again, and Richard is lying on his back in front of Jamie, now. He's naked and glistening with sweat, and he's hard, and he's touching himself, and he's biting down on that infuriatingly plump lower lip of his, and he's telling Jamie he wants him again.

So Jamie _takes_ him again, covering that perfect body with his and biting down onto a perfect collarbone. As soon as Jamie's sinking into Richard in his mind, his hands are back on his cock, thank _fuck_, and he lets out a loud, satisfied groan in response. His lips then inevitably find Richard's, and he tastes like Scotch Ale and cigarette smoke—and why on _earth_ didn’t Jamie kiss him tonight?—and he's letting out the _prettiest_ sounds. 

Richard is not Taron, so the noises he's making really couldn't be more different than Taron's singing tones. No, these are low and guttural and _gravelly_, somehow letting the brogue seep through—and the sheer erotism of _that_, combined with Jamie's hands on himself, looks set to push him over that edge for a split-second.

But no, he’s not ready, actually.

Jamie still needs one last bit of imagery before he lets himself get his reward. He still needs to _service_ Richard in his mind, edge him as he's edging himself, coax out even more of those delicious melodies that are escaping the man's lips. So his very dynamic imaginary self manages to slide out of that impossibly hot body and moves down and down and down, kissing and biting at all the hard muscle in his wake—pecs, abs, obliques, groin, thighs—before he decides to have mercy and wrap his lips around Richard's cock.

His mouth feels dry and empty and he needs it to be wet and _full_, right about now, and he's drunk and the need for touch is _excruciating_, but all he has are his own hands. He moves his left from his groin back up his body, then, and two fingers find his lips, and he slicks them and sucks on them, and he moans around them like it's Richard's cock that's filling his mouth, and he can hear the man begging for more, so he gives him more—swirling his tongue on him and caressing his balls, promising himself that the next time he does this it will be for real.

It doesn’t take Jamie long to get back on the climb towards his orgasm. It’s quicker and it’s more efficient, this time. It’s like he’s walking up one of those endless escalators in the Tube, and nothing's standing in his way—not insecurities, not fears, not emotional baggage, not _feelings_—and he can finally get out in the glorious sunshine and see the blue sky of Richard’s eyes. The fire burning inside Jamie spreads in the rest of his body like he’s taken a dip in lighter fluid, and he arches his back, presses his head into the cushions next to him to stifle a frankly _embarrassingly _loud groan and a string of absolute nonsense, and electricity is spreading in every corner of his head, and he’s shooting hot and hard all over his stomach and chest, making a right mess of his clean sheets.

It’s so exhausting to come down from the high, that Jamie finds himself wondering whether he’s ever managed anything like this on his own before. Sorely doubts that, for some reason.

The words _spent with high treason_ bizarrely float around in his head. Not quite sure why they popped up just then, of all times. But he’s damn well looking forward to finding that one out.

** _Part III - Now look at the mess you made me make_ **

_“These things are never easy, ‘cause you’re naked in a room with thirty, fifty people, and it’s always a bit strange, but it’s a really important moment in the film, it’s a really important moment in Elton’s life, and it’s a pivotal part of the film—the first time he makes love with someone. It’s a tough thing to shoot on the day but I think Dexter handled it really well and kind of made a really beautiful scene.” _– Richard

_“It’s difficult at the best of times but people are professionals, they do their job, and they make it look convincing, and that’s the minimum requirement of the actor. But it’s great, I’m very proud of the scene, I think Taron and Richard are rightly proud of it.[…] I just think that in Elton’s story it’s a pivotal moment in his life when he kind of realises who he is and that’s part of his journey, and he falls in love with this guy—and he’s Richard Madden, who’s incredibly good-looking, who wouldn’t fall in love with him?”_ – Dexter

_“Me and Richard get on very well, so it was totally fine. Neither of us have any problem with male intimacy—why would we?—and, you know, it was a scene that we were both passionate about, because it’s a very tender, beautiful moment in Elton’s history.” _– Taron

_“I love our versions of the songs, and I’m putting more in. I go away at the edit and I’m like, there’s another opportunity there, to put _Take Me To The Pilot_ under a love scene. “Take me to the pilot of your soul,” in the love scene with [Elton] and John Reid. […] And we put it together, and it suddenly becomes, you know… an amazing moment that maybe we didn’t—I knew I had a love scene, I was like “Needs some music.” The editor puts an Elton track that we hadn’t used, and I go, “Oh, fuck, that comes alive in a completely different way.” _– Dexter

_“Those scenes are hard to film anyway. It just happens to be Richard Madden, who’s absolutely gorgeous. Taron’s like “God, he’s so hot!”, and I’m like “Yeah, great! Go for it!”” _– Dexter

_Two weeks later – the day after the Scotland weekend_

It feels like a pack of angry hedgehogs suddenly have started prickling around Jamie’s guts when Dexter decides to share the rough cut of the sex—no, _love_ scene, _for God’s sake, get ya mind out of the gu’er, won’t ya, boys_—with Richard and Taron.

It’s early on a Monday morning again and Jamie is in a weird mood already, because Taron spent the weekend at Richard’s parents’ house in Scotland, and he can’t help but notice Taron’s walk is a little _wobbly_ today, and he’s not sure why those two pieces of information put together make him feel the way he feels at the moment.

It does kind of help that Taron is being extra _fussy_ today—standing close as he can to Jamie at all times, pouring him tea, grabbing his hand when no-one is looking, whispering into his ear (the content of the banter both adorable and unrepeatable). All in all, Jamie is pretty sure the universe will reward him with a great afternoon and night ahead.

However, he really can’t help but notice that Richard is watching their every move. He senses the piercing blue gaze on the back of his neck constantly. He feels his warmth, dangerously close, when he’s helping himself to a croissant from the breakfast buffet. Also, he could swear on Thierry Henry’s right foot he actually just saw Richard _bite his lip_ at the sight of Taron planting a kiss on the corner of Jamie’s lips—he’s not quite sure why he’s looking around at all while Taron is giving him the sweetest attentions, but he’s very glad he managed to catch _that_. In a split second, he’s back to the bar with Richard’s leg touching his and all that bloody _tension _between them—but, hey, Richard practically ran out of there like he was being chased. He isn’t interested in Jamie like that—is he?

_Oh, God. Maybe he _is.

The way Richard looks at Jamie is different, today. There’s unmistakeable _lust_ in his eyes, and Jamie has a million and a half questions on what the _hell_ that is all about—if he really has a chance, if he’s misreading this, if Richard is just flirting or whether there’s a chance if he plays his cards right, what playing his cards right would look like—but, oh, look, Dexter is now clapping his hands to get their attention. So that’ll have to wait.

“Right-o, boys, shall we?” he says, to no-one in particular—since Richard, Taron and Jamie are all standing quite close together. Jamie suddenly feels out of place.

“I’d better be off, then, Dex. Leave you to it?”

“Nonsense, Jamie,” Dexter says, benevolently. “This is as much for _you_ as it is for these two handsome buggers over ‘ere,” Dexter retorts, gesturing between Richard and Taron, who exchange a poignant look that sends sparks flying in the surrounding ten square metres. “You’ll see why,” their beloved director teases, wide smile on his face, winking at Jamie, who in turn feels another pang of _something_ in the right side of his stomach, but grins and nods—_thanks Dex, can’t wait_.

By the time they sit down in front of the screen—Taron is sat next to Jamie, Richard has declined a chair and is standing behind them both—Dexter has yet to stop bantering. He is still going strong when Jamie finally manages to reconnect his brain, and it’s incidentally right on time for him to hear the words _four hours of raw footage_ and _what a long day that was_, and his body is suddenly on fire just thinking about it. He turns his head slightly to his left and notices that Richard’s hands are now resting on Taron’s shoulders, his thumbs mindlessly stroking on the spot where his collarbones protrude, and there is an air to the gesture Jamie would call caring but also _possessive_, as if Richard is making a point, as if he’s asserting dominance. Everything else is drowned out of Jamie’s mind for a few blissful moments, right up to when Dexter finally zips it and fires up the scene on the screen, and they all unconsciously catch their breath.

The screen lights up and there Taron and Richard are, extremely close, and the light is very dim, and Richard is topless, and they’re _kissing_, and… _wow_. Back in the real world, Taron’s hand has landed on the inside of Jamie’s thigh, and Jamie is having to fake a fit of coughing to stop himself from whimpering out loud. He can’t really help from writhing in his seat, though, because on the screen John is now grabbing at Elton’s shirt and, gods save Jamie, they’re _sighing _so damn loudly—and that quite simply goes straight to his cock.

For Christ’s sake, he’s basically watching his lover and _his lover’s other lover_—who may well be the most ridiculously attractive bloke on the _planet_, as far as Jamie’s concerned—getting it on like there’s no cameras around, of course he’s revved up beyond belief. Although the blood currently pooling all around his crotch area also could have something to do with the way Taron’s hand is caressing him, perilously inching upwards on his thigh and making it _very difficult_ to concentrate.

Difficult, but not impossible—because that’s precisely when he finally switches his ears properly on and concentrates on the background music rather than the moans and loud sighs, and he _hears it_.

The song. _The_ song.

Dexter just bloody had to go and do it to him. He’s actually used _Take Me To The Pilot_ as a soundtrack to Taron and Richard’s sex scene. Jamie has decided he _will_ call it a sex scene—because, god-fucking-damn, the boys sure are looking keen on shimmying out of those trousers right about now.

Richard on the screen is on top of Taron, smiling against his lips, holding him in a passionate, amorous embrace—and in real life Richard’s real hand is on Taron’s real shoulder, and Jamie is finding it really hard to breathe normally.

But then, just as Jamie doesn’t know how much he can take before needing an actual bathroom break, his entire body freezes. There’s a hand very delicately caressing the side of his neck, right behind his ear—and it can’t possibly be Taron’s, the angle is all wrong.

And then Jamie realises what’s happening, and his face catches fire in an instant.

Oh, _fuck_.

He’s imagined this, he’s _wanted _this—this hand he’s never had the pleasure to have on him before, giving him the attention he’s been craving—and every fibre of his being is suddenly on high alert.

It’s _Richard_, of course it bloody is—who else could it be? He’s now splitting his attention between Taron and Jamie, and how a thirty-two-year-old British man can get this hard, this quickly is quite frankly incomprehensible to Jamie for a few seconds.

Back on the screen, Taron—_Elton_—flips them round on the bed, and that damn _bum_ is up and exposed for the world to see, and Jamie’s eyes _burn_, and he’s leaning into Richard’s touch, and Taron’s hand is almost on Jamie’s groin, and…

“What do you all beautiful bastards think, then?”

Oh, great. Dexter’s just popped back out of nowhere. Jamie hadn’t even realised he’d left, if he’s honest. 

Then again, thinking about it, the level of explicit intimacy in the boys’ _attentions_ towards him should have been a plain enough clue. Shame that Jamie’s brain was (and still is) not quite working at full capacity. The latter being a _humongous_ fucking euphemism to simply say that Jamie is horny as all hell, and he’s now absolutely sure he wants to be in bed with_ both_ these men more than he’s ever wanted anyone or anything in his life.

Richard’s delicious brogue comes in, smooth as ever, just as his hand leaves Jamie’s neck, a scorching memory of his touch still imprinted on Jamie’s skin like the most painful tattoo he’ll ever get.

“I’m thinkin’ we dinnae get tae see enough of Pretty Boy’s bum in this cut, eh? Pretty sure you shot quite a lot of _that_ in four fecking ‘ours, though, eh?”

And then they’re all laughing at Richard’s thirsty comment—blowing off steam, Dexter patting the main men on the back and playfully agreeing to give The Bum more screentime, all the while winking wildly at Jamie.

Jamie knows it’s the blasted song Dex is teasing him about, but the film playing in his head is an entirely different one, and he just _needs_ privacy right now.

Or Taron and Richard all over him.

The choice is for the universe to make, really.

Jamie is just hitching a bloody ride on this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are by the Big Man himself, the everlasting love of my life James Blunt and his [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xU4wN8WbTfE)—which I’m more and more convinced is about Jamie and Richard—and Alex _fucking_ Turner, as per.
> 
> _Take Me To The Pilot_ is Jamie’s actual favourite Elton song. Please listen to him say the words [here](https://youtu.be/BgR-JsDjBFo).
> 
> As always, I’m incredibly grateful to [supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof) for opening my eyes about J/R. You turned this story into something that I never thought it could become. This whole thing is better because of you, and I’ll love you forever for this.
> 
> The porn in part II is, as mentioned, all my lovely beta reader’s fault. I feel like I needed a follow-up of the R/J accidental date, and this was the _perfect_ occasion. So, yeah. Now y’all know how much Jamie wants to bone Richard, I guess. And that if (when?) that happens, he’d most definitely be topping. Because I most definitely make the rules, and I say this is _most definitely_ how it goes. *peace sign*
> 
> Last but not least, I hope you enjoyed my alternative take on the sex scene. I felt like it had been done and re-done and that I’d participated to the whole shebang way too often myself—so now we get Jamie’s reaction to it, and Richard’s longing touches, and…
> 
> Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Lord, I keep doing this, today, don’t I? Well… edging is interesting. And you better like it too, because I’m going to keep teasing you with this. There is just so much more to unpack, before we get anywhere. 
> 
> Next week, we’re back to the rumbling Welsh thunder. He goes home after filming’s done, and it’s all very cute.
> 
> Until then, have a good one.
> 
> Love,
> 
> C x


	12. 12. Taron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rocketman_ wraps, and Taron finally gets to take a break.
> 
> They say “home is where the heart this”—and they’re oh so _right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all,  
I’d like to start this week’s notes by wishing a belated happy birthday to the whole rhyme and reason why we’re all here today. Taron David Egerton, I love you with every fibre of my being. Bless your giant, golden heart for making me smile every single day. Bless you for being humble and generous and loving. Bless you for your incredible performance in this film that has ruined all our lives, almost six months ago, and for effectively re-igniting my everlasting love for cinema.
> 
> Bless you.
> 
> Alright, then. *dries tears* Ahem. Here we are. New week, new Tuesday, new chapter. I want to preface this by saying that I know it distinctly feels like it’s an Aber festival on the Madderton tag, this week, but I swear to you all that this chapter was penned down as a very clear prompt _months_ ago. And now look at me, posting it only two days after Taron’s birthday. I really don’t know what to say about this—except that the cosmic tethering has gotten absolutely fucking ridiculous by this point. And I love it. 
> 
> As usual, huge thanks to [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose%20rel=) for the lovely beta work—infinite suggestions, research on Taron’s Aber boys—all the good stuff. Thank you for putting up with me even when you thought that the chapter was finished, and then I ended up adding a good 2k words to it. I just couldn’t seem to stop myself from writing more and more and a tad more still.
> 
> I’ll now take a step back and let you (hopefully) enjoy a long-ass study on Aberystwyth, children, mothers, love, friendship, domesticity—and, more generally, Taron being overwhelmed by human kindness. We love our sappy boy.
> 
> See you later.

** _Part I – You are my princess/Ballerina, you must have seen her_ **

_Saturday, November 3rd_

Taron _rumbles_ through the door.

“I’m hooooome!” he booms.

No feedback. Everything is quiet. Motionless. He looks around him, suddenly underwhelmed. Where _is_ everyone?

As he’s starting to wonder whether his whole family might have completely forgotten that he was coming home, Mari and Rosie come running out of nowhere. They jump on him, and they’re all smiles and giggles and _arth is home!_, and everything is wonderful.

Yes, his little sisters call him _bear_. Yes, he loves it.

Taron bends down and hugs them both, in turn. They look positively _chuffed_ to see him.

“_Gath fach_,” he says, planting a smooch on Mari’s head. “And _tywysoges_,” he says, pinching Rosie’s cheek. “How are you, my loves?”

“Good!” they reply, in unison, beaming. Then Mari exclaims “You’re home!” like she can’t quite believe it.

“Yes, yes, I am, sweet’eart!” Taron replies, pulling her close and kissing her temple.

“Can we play, _arth_? You can be Prince Charming and I’ll be Cinderella? Pleasepleaseplease?” Rosie asks, imploringly.

Taron’s heart fills up in record time as he thinks of the _perfect_ comeback to that.

“Oh, my love. I got you a much _better_ Prince Charming back in London. Just let me say hi to Mam and I’ll show you, yeah?”

“Where’s my thunder boy?” Tina’s voice comes out of the kitchen, on cue. The woman herself then promptly strolls out into the entrance hall, wearing an olive-green apron and a huge grin on her face.

“Mam!” Taron exclaims, pulling her in for a tight hug. She smells like the cherry blossom fabric softener she’s been using since Taron can remember, her blackberry Lalique perfume Taron got her for Christmas a few years ago, and a faint spell of cinnamon—probably from the baking she looks like she’s been doing.

“You brought sunshine with you for once, _cariad_.”

“Tried my best, Mam. It _just_ fit in the back of the Jag, so I thought I might as well,” he says, winking at her.

Smooth. Maybe Taron does have a shot at that Bond gig, after all. He should tell Richard to start shaking in his boots, really, shouldn’t he?

Tina shakes her head. “I swear to God, you and your fast cars. Makes me think of a certain someone…” Tina hints, winking at him.

Might have been a bad idea to send her that pic from a couple of weeks ago, in which he was leaning moodily over Richard’s Martin. Yeah, well. Taron and his mother have got a bit of catching up to do—but not_ that_ much.

“You need to take your hat off, _arth_!” Rosie admonishes him, from the height of her five years spent on Planet Earth. "No hats inside the house!"

Taron freezes, then blushes to the roots of his hair. Incidentally, the roots are all that’s _left_ of his hair—he got it freshly buzzed this morning, right before his drive to Wales. The shaved head is awful. Makes him look like an _egg_.

How he wishes he was Jamie Bell, sometimes—that’s a bloke who can _definitely_ pull the look off.

On a second thought, though, being Jamie Bell means not getting to _fuck_ Jamie Bell. And Taron very much enjoys doing that, thank you very much. So, yeah, maybe being called Eggsy unironically for a couple of months might be worth it, after all.

“Taron?” Mari breaks him out of his reverie. “Hat?” she backs her sister up, an unmistakeably _sassy_ look on her face.

Jesus. Taron turns his gaze from her to Tina, who is silently chuckling.

“When have these two become such bossy little ladies?”

“Not quite sure. Seems to have happened overnight, really. One day they’re adorable little angels, the next Mari tells Dad off for holding his spoon wrong, and Rosie tells me I should _really_ not wear purple. Ages me, you see,” Tina says, with a knowing look on her face. “They’re not wrong, though, you know. Hat off, young man.”

“But Mam, it’s a _Borsalino_…” Taron decides to try it. Last shot. He crosses his fingers.

“Sorry, darling, only Italian I know is from _Jamie Cooks Italy_. C’mon,” she says, gesturing at the hat, “off it comes.”

Taron rolls his eyes and sighs loudly in defeat. He delicately grabs his trilby and pulls it off. Immediately, a cold breeze coming from an open window grazes his shaved scalp. _Great_, he’s going to get ill. He can just _feel_ it.

“Oh. My. Goodness.” Rosie says, sounding positively flabbergasted. “Where’s your _hair_, Taron?”

“Gone, princess. I went sailing, and the wind blew it all off.”

“You did _not_,” Mari retorts, “Last time we went sailing with Jack and Bleddyn it was very windy, and you still had all your hair at the end of the day!”

Ah, damn. “Touché, ballerina girl,” Taron says, eyeing Tina who is sporting a proud expression on her face. “I had to shave it all off. It was really ugly. Now I can start from scratch and by next month I’ll have hair as long as yours!”

“Oh, really, Taron? Like a princess?” Rosie asks, suddenly excited. Taron tries imagining himself with a Jared Leto ‘do, and chuckles to himself. “But then,” she continues, perplexed, “who will play the prince?”

Ah, right. _Right_. Time to break the big news, then. Taron hasn’t yet kicked his shoes off, and he’s already about to gush over Richard Madden in white tights. _Grand_.

“Funny you should ask that, cupcake. You remember _Cinderella_?”

“You mean the one movie she constantly _demands_ to watch?” Tina asks, sardonically. “The one whose DVD was so battered, I had to buy a digital copy to avoid further damage? That movie?”

“Yes, yes, _alright_, Mam, we got it,” Taron cuts her off, fake-exasperated. “_That _movie.”

“Pretty blue dress! The kitty! The _prince_!” Rosie peeps, jumping up and down with excitement. “Are we watching _Cinderella_?”

“Even better, love. Look here,” Taron says, as he picks his phone out of his pocket and it lights up—a selfie of Richard in a tight white t-shirt, a view of some green hills and a blue sky behind him. He’s beaming at the camera, and he’s _gorgeous_. Taron is already giddy on the account of the picture, longing and undying love flooding the gates of his heart—but he has something even _better_ in store for Rosie.

He opens up the message app and clicks on _Dickie_—the name has a black loveheart next to it, on Richard’s demand. He scrolls through the media and finds what he’s looking for. A video. He opens it up and sits down on the carpet, cross-legged, gesturing towards Rosie to join him.

“C’mere, baby girl. Look.”

She sits down next to him and eagerly leans over him to watch the screen. He presses play.

Richard is on camera, grinning broadly—and, once again, he’s a bloody vision. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt and his hair is all properly done up. He looks like a modern Prince Charming, and Taron really needs to concentrate on the idea that this is all supposed to be _cute_—because he might just want Richard a tad too much already, and the man hasn’t even started talking yet.

“Hello, Rosie,” Richard starts, just as Taron is getting lost in the infinite blue of his eyes. “Prince Kit here. I would like to invite you for tea at the palace, just you and me.” He’s got the posh accent on, and he’s _perfect_.

Taron still prefers the Highlands brogue, mind, but this… It’s new, and it’s exotic. If a couple of years ago someone had told Taron he’d one day find himself referring to a standard English accent as _exotic_, he’d have told them they were barking—and now look at him.

“There’s also a little present for you, somewhere in Taron’s bag,” Richard continues, smooth as ever. “I hope you like it. See you very soon, m’lady!” He closes the whole thing off with a wink and a kiss—and Taron’s entire body is on fire.

Rosie, on the other hand, distinctly looks and sounds like she’s only a few moments away from swooning.

“That’s… That’s the prince! Where is he? Is he with you?” she asks, hopeful, her eyes sparkling with joy.

“No, princess, he’s not—not today,” Taron replies, soothing, “but he’s coming to visit next month!” he says, all the while eyeing his mother, hopeful. Tina nods and winks at him. She _loves_ Richard.

“Can I meet him too, Taron?” Mari asks, playing with Taron’s very expensive trilby. Gareth _definitely_ will kill him if it gets ruined. But she’s so cute in the way-too-big hat, that Taron cannot bring himself to say anything.

“Of course you can, kitten,” Taron replies, caressing her shoulder and bringing her closer. “Although I might have someone even better for you. Give me a sec, lemme get this out of the bag for Rosie, eh?”

Every time Taron looks at his bag, he can barely believe his eyes—because it’s Hermès. Fucking. _Hermès_. He would never in a million years have bought that expensive of a bag for himself, but he ended up owning one for the simple reason that Richard Madden is someone who is very much in his life, these days. And the man still feels the need to overcompensate for Christ knows what exactly—which is, Taron supposes, why he showed up on set with two of these, a few weeks back. One for Taron, one for Jamie. God, the look on Jamie’s face. That was certainly _something_.

Taron fumbles with the zipper, and he gets the thing open. A sea of light blue tulle and silk springs out—Taron has managed to pack _a lot_ of clothes in the bag, and they’re all exploding out of it now that the tension has been released—and Rosie is all over it before Taron can say _look, it’s like Ella’s!_

“It’s beauuuuuuuutiful!” she says, jumping around and clutching her new princess dress. Taron wonders whether Richard might have called in a favour from the actual costume designer who made the actual gown that Lily wore in the film, because this is pretty much ninety-nine percent bang-on. _Damn, he’d be such a good dad_.

“Can I wear it now, Mam?” she asks, making big, sweet, eyes up at Tina.

“After tea, my love. You’ll get it all dirty, otherwise!”

Rosie looks pensive for a second, seemingly considering the matter. She must finally decide that her mum is right, because she ends up handing her the gown and say, “After tea, yes. When is tea?”

Taron chuckles in earnest. What an eager little monkey. Tina looks at him and shakes her head. She carefully folds the gown and puts it on a chair in the entrance hall. Then, she offers Rosie her hand and suggests they finish the baking together. Rosie takes it, and the two disappear back into the kitchen.

Taron is left sitting on the floor with Mari next to him—who is looking at him like she’s waiting for something.

“Oh, of course! Sorry, kitten. Got something for you too,” he says, remembering. After a few seconds of rummaging around in his very full and not very organised bag, he manages to find what he’s looking for. “Bingo! There’s a present for you too, sweet’eart, but you’ve got to read this first,” he says, as he hands the girl an envelope.

Mari grabs it and she tears it open enthusiastically. It contains a card, which has a beautiful watercolour drawing of a ballerina in full tutu and pointe shoes, and the words _hold me closer, tiny dancer_ written around her.

Sweet Jesus, Jamie Bell is a sappy man. Not like this is new to Taron in the slightest, but it always manages to get him ridiculously giddy all the same.

He’s right next to Mari when she reads the card, so he manages to peek.

_Dearest Mari,_

_A little bird told me that you’re an aspiring ballerina, and that you’re very good, too._

_I hope you enjoy the present I sent over. Just a little something every dancer should have._

_I hope we’ll meet very soon. I’d love to see your moves, and show you mine!_

_Lots of love,_

_Jamie (Billy Elliot)_

“Oh my God, _arth_,” Mari erupts, jumping up and down. “_Billy Elliot_? He sent me a present? He wants to _dance_ with me?”

“Yes, yes, kitten,” Taron laughs, taking the chance to grab his fedora back from the girl’s head and put it back on his own. He then ruffles her hair, affectionately. “_Jamie_ sent you a present. And he’s very impressed with your dancing—I showed him the video of your recital!”

“Oh wow, really?” she asks, incredulous. “And he _liked_ it?”

“Very much, sweet’eart!” Taron reassures her, as he gets a neatly wrapped present out of his bag. The wrapping paper is gone in the blink of an eye, and out of it come some brand-new pointe shoes, a pair of cream white tights, a light pink bodysuit, and a puffy tutu—in the same shade of pink.

Mari squeals. Taron’s heart fills with joy.

His phone rings. He picks it up from where it’s lying, discarded on the carpet next to him.

FaceTime.

_Jamie_.

“’ello, love,” Taron says, picking up the call. “You and your cosmic tethering are starting to get _ridiculous_. We were _just_ talking about you!”

Jamie smiles, and immediately does his best to take his breath away. His hair looks damp but he is, thankfully, fully dressed. A navy blue V-neck T-shirt that hugs the top half of his body _impeccably_. Taron wants to eat him. _Not in front of the children, Taron_.

“Oh, really? Just good things, I hope?” Jamie comes back, warmly. “Hey, who’s that pretty girl next to you?” he says, his smile getting a tad broader still.

“Why, it’s Aberystwyth’s prima ballerina, of course. Wanna say hi?”

“Oh, goodness! Yes, yes I do!” Jamie says, enthusiastically, while leaning against his white leather couch.

“Want to say hello to Jamie, Mari?” Taron asks, turning to face her. She’s got it all figured out already, and she’s nodding frantically.

Taron turns the camera slightly and Mari is on, greeting Jamie and waving and blowing kisses.

“Hello, Mari!” Jamie replies. He looks _fond_, and Taron suddenly feels his paternal instinct kick in—like a roaring lion breaking the silence in the savanna. He wants to meet Jamie’s boy _so bad_. “Did you like the clothes?”

“Hello, Jamie! Yes, yes, I _loved _them! Thank you so much! Miss Scott said she will get us on pointes next month so I’m really happy I have some now!”

Jamie raises his eyebrows and puffs up his cheeks. Huffs out the air. “Good luck, sweetheart. They’re hard, but you’ll be ace at them, I’m sure!”

Taron watches the exchange, and he needs to stop himself from making gushy noises.

“Taron will take videos of the Christmas recital for you, won’t you Taron?” Mari asks Taron, hopeful.

“Will be sending a lot your way, love, promise,” Taron reassures them both, looking from Mari to the screen alternatively.

Jamie winks at him. Jamie should stop doing it right this instant.

“Alright, kitten, say bye-bye to Jamie!” he hears himself saying, once again feeling hopelessly and helplessly in love—after barely a few minutes spent on the phone.

“Bye-bye Jamie! Thank you and see you soon?”

“Very soon, Mari. Promise. Keep dancing, love!”

Mari blows Jamie a kiss, then proceeds to saunter off in the direction of her bedroom, happily clutching her new treasures. Taron watches her turn the corner and disappear from sight, then turns back towards his phone and Jamie.

“You’re the absolute fucking best, Jamie Bell.”

“C’mon, T—least I could do. She’s lovely. She _deserves_ the best.”

“She really does. Speaking of lovely, Jack around at all next week? I’d _love_ to take him out for waffles.”

Jamie’s whole face lights up. “Oh, love…” he says, looking and sounding exactly like how Taron is feeling, right now. _Elated_. _In love_. “That can definitely be arranged. I love you so freaking much, sunshine.” Jamie gives him a _fond_ look again, and Taron feels himself melt into an actual puddle of adoration and want.

“I love you too, Jamie. Thank you for being awesome. Speak soon, dancing boy,” Taron concludes, blowing a kiss the same way Mari did earlier.

All in all, this could not have gone any better if they’d tried.

** _Part II – God only knows what I’d be without you_ **

_Half an hour later_

Taron walks up to his childhood bedroom, dumps his bags on the floor (not the Hermès, though—that one he _delicately rests_ on the bed), strips naked, and puts on his old bathrobe, that feels and smells like it’s fresh out of the wash. He then gets out of his room and into the bathroom, steps into the shower, and loses himself under the comforting, scorching hot water. Every single product his mum has in there comes from the same line—and they’re all scented like cherry blossom and rice milk—so Taron comes out of the shower smelling like a delicious bunch of Japanese sweets. He still prefers Jamie’s choice of scent, but he must admit this one is making him feel pretty damn fabulous.

As soon as he’s dry and into some comfy trackies, a T-shirt and a hoodie, he sits down on his bed, and looks around himself. The walls are crowded with posters. Bowie is ever-present—the cover for _Ziggy_ next to a photo of Taron as a teenager in London, in the exact same spot where the Duke stood to pose for the picture; the very cliché but inevitable portrait with the lightning bolt across his face; a 1977 black-and-white photo of him sitting at a table, looking pensive and androgynous and impossibly _gorgeous_ in a black leather jacket; and the polar opposite of that—him in a canary yellow suit, sitting on a green suede chair, his hair bright orange, a cigarette between his lips, and a pair of sharp-looking scissors in his hands. The man passed away almost three years ago, and Taron still has the most hopelessly intense intellectual (and let’s be honest, not _just_ intellectual) crush on him.

There’s loads of posters for Tarantino movies, too—_Reservoir Dogs_, _Pulp Fiction_, _Kill Bill_—and, of course, Star Wars. The rest are bits and bobs including (but not limited to) family, the Aber boys, train tickets, concert tickets, postcards from far away—just a lot of happiness, really. A time that is gone, but not forgotten. So many memories, crammed up in such a tiny space.

Taron feels overwhelmed for a second, as he lies down on his bed wondering where the _hell _time has gone, and how in the _world_ he is about to turn twenty-nine.

Sinking down into his pillow, he decides that, on his first day of a whole huge chunk of time off after three and a half months spent on a constant emotional rollercoaster, maybe a nap isn’t that bad of an idea.

So he closes his eyes, and he sleeps.

_Sunday, November 4th_

Taron wakes up to the sound of Tina’s voice.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she says, while shaking his arm very gently.

“Mmgh… Mam… What time is it?” Taron asks, still half-asleep. He fleetingly acknowledges an excessive amount of light coming through the window and framing the cat, who is snoozing on the chair in front of his desk.

“It’s 8 A.M. You slept for _fourteen hours_, darling,” Tina informs him, in a tone that says that she can’t quite believe what she’s saying, either.

“Oh, fuck,” Taron replies, unable to help himself. The swearword is immediately followed by a disapproving look from his mother.

“Language, _cariad_?”

“Oh, Mam, _please_,” he implores her, burying his head back into the pillow. “I’m a grown man.”

“Can make your own breakfast, then, I gather?” she teases. Taron groans, and his stomach immediately starts making funny noises. Fuck, he didn’t even have dinner. And Tina normally always makes him Full English when he’s home. Plus, he’s slept so much that he somehow feels more tired than he did before going to bed, and even the _thought_ of cracking two eggs into a pan is exhausting, at the moment.

“Maaaaam, _please_,” he implores, unable to think of any witty comebacks on the account of the famished sea monster now living in his stomach. He pouts, trying to look adorable. “Food?”

“Only if you promise not to swear in front of the girls. Gonna have a word with Elton about that, by the way.”

“Cross my heart, Ma,” Taron says. Then what Tina just said fully dawns on him, so he continues. “And _please_, don’t? Don’t make me regret giving you David’s number.”

“_He_ calls quite often, actually. Once a week. To give me all the gossip. I know _everything_.”

Taron wolfs down his breakfast. Not even the damned black pudding—the thought of which is revolting at the best of times—is spared. Tina tops his eggs up twice, makes him three cups of Yorkshire Tea, and keeps looking at him like he hung the moon.

After Taron’s second cuppa, Mari and Rosie and their dad have to leave to get ready for church—the girls sing in the choir every Sunday (Taron can’t believe how long it’s been since _he_ used to do that)—and Tina and Taron are left alone at the table. Tina puts a hand on Taron’s, clutching it affectionately.

“I’m so proud of you, my love,” she says, suddenly very serious.

Taron looks at his mam as she says the words. The utter delight on her face matches the one in her voice, and Taron feels a sudden wave of emotions fill his chest. As well as the very familiar prickling sensation in the corners of his eyes that can only mean he’s about to get ridiculously emotional.

So, to avoid any premature spillage, he decides to start fucking around.

“I mean,” he says, taking a sip of his tea. Which is _perfect_. Milk, two sugars, and a splash of motherly love. “I’ve always been a keen eater, haven’t I, Ma? No need to get all gushy about it, all of a sudden.”

Taron can see in Tina’s eyes that she is not buying his game. She tightens her grip on his hand and shakes it, lightly.

“You’re a humongous duffer, ya know it, son?”

“Been told that once or twice, yeah.”

“I’m so proud of you, Taron. You’re so young, and you’ve already accomplished so much,” she starts again, and Taron knows that if she keeps on her tangent he will _definitely_ cry his eyes out—so he tries to open his mouth to interrupt her, but she won’t have it. “Let me finish, baby. This movie you just made… David and Dexter constantly send me pictures and videos of you singing and rehearsing and your dad and I are just absolutely in _awe_ of you, every single time. You’re so good, _cariad_, and you deserve the whole world.”

“Oh, Mam…” Taron says, biting down hard on his lower lip and clutching Tina’s hand in return. He will _not_ cry, goddamnit.

“It’s true, sweet boy. And I want you to know it. It’s not always been easy for us, and I’m sorry I messed up so many times. I’m sorry I freaked out when you were having such a hard time, fifteen years ago. I know it’s unforgivable. I was just constantly worried about you—you seemed to be closing yourself off from the world and spiralling into your own private universe more and more each day, and then you said you thought you might be gay and I was just… overwhelmed. I was so scared of losing you, and I really couldn’t cope on my own. So I sent you to therapy, instead of being there for you _myself_. I’m sorry, and I’m so lucky that you turned out so perfect despite me being an absolute trainwreck of a single mother.”

Now Tina’s eyes are also veiled with tears, and Taron’s heart is beating a hundred miles an hour.

“Hey, hey, c’mon,” Taron starts, feeling the tears starting to well up again. “You weren’t a trainwreck in the slightest. Plus, why are you apologising? Dr. Miller helped me out so much. It’s because of her that I’m so comfortable with myself and my sexuality, today. I owe it all to her, and by extension to you. I’m still a neurotic mess from time to time, but the question of whom I can allow myself to love was solved donkey’s years ago.”

Tina smiles at him sweetly while he’s saying this, but he sees a tear rolling down her cheek—and he feels his own eyes burn even more insistently.

Oh, here come the tears, alright. Eh, fuck it, he might as well double down.

“I’m the luckiest man alive. You’re the best mam I could ever have asked for.”

Tina springs to her feet, so Taron does too. In a heartbeat, they’re bawling into each other’s arms. It’s cathartic, and it’s wonderful.

“I love you so much, Taron,” she says, into his shoulder, hugging him tight. “_Ti'n werth y byd_.”

“Oh, _Mam_,” he sobs, overwhelmed. “I’m really not. I love you too, so _so_ much.”

Tina takes a step back to look at him. She cups his face with her hand, and she dries a few tears with her thumb.

“I know two young gentlemen who will definitely agree with me. Don’t make me call _them_, too.”

Taron is still a weeping mess, but he still starts chuckling at the thought of his mother calling both his boyfriends up to ask them whether or not they think that her son is _worth the world_. Knowing them, they probably would give a detailed answer, too. God, how did Taron get so lucky?

After they regain their composure, they spend the rest of the morning chatting and cooking together. It’s lovely and it’s easy to tell Tina all about Scotland, about Jamie’s plans for a four-day trip to Italy before Christmas, about wrapping on _Rocketman_, and about the Carpool Karaoke episode he and Richard filmed last week.

That last one, in particular, catches Tina’s attention—so Taron launches on an animated recreation of their mad trip around London in the Rover filled with mechanical eyes and mics.

“May or may not have accidentally kissed Richard on James Corden’s cameras…”

“Of course you did,” she says, grinning. “And what songs did you sing?”

“Lots of Elton, of course. Richard insisted on _Bennie_ and I wanted _Rocket Man_—but then we stuffed the theme up because I would not _stand_ not having Bowie and George in it. It was a f—a blast, it was a blast, Ma!” Taron says, catching himself at the last minute before swearing. A big huge grin appears on his face when Tina glowers at him the same way she did a few hours ago.

“I bet it was. Those things are always so funny to watch!” Tina comes back, handing Taron a vegetable peeler. “Mind getting started on those, darling?” she asks, pointing at the sack of potatoes sitting on the counter.

“Love to,” Taron replies, eager. He normally _loathes_ peeling potatoes, but every little chore he has to take care of when he’s back home manages to feel breezy and even pleasurable, since Matthew Vaughn impetuously entered his life and made it so that he doesn’t get to come back as often as he used to. Any excuse to spend time with his Mam is good, these days—and even having to peel potatoes sounds fun, at the moment.

Taron ends up mentioning the _Bodyguard_ sketch he and Richard pulled on unsuspecting passers-by, and Tina laughs her heart out—and then she actually starts gushing over the series. And they go on about it. _A lot_. Forty-five whole minutes, in fact. The number of ways a middle-aged mother of three finds to convey how much Richard Madden’s puppy eyes caught her by the feelings leaves Taron completely and utterly astounded. But, actually, it’s when the person who gave birth to him and who probably loves him most in the world pronounces the words “perfect rear” that he almost chokes on a sip of the red wine he’s drinking.

“_Honestly_, mother,” Taron says, putting on his best utterly shocked and extremely camp voice. “Can’t you mind _your husband_’s rear, and leave my boyfriend’s alone?”

Tina chuckles against the rim of her wine glass. “Oh, sweet’eart,” she says, knowingly. “I’m married, not _blind_.”

_Touché_, mother. _Touché_. 

** _Part III – Looking for an island, in our boat upon the sea_ **

_Monday, November 5th _

The boat is really small—six metres at best—and it's _definitely_ not safe for six people. But Tina trusts Bleddyn (the man's a seasoned sailor, and she's given her blessing for the girls to go out with him many times before)—so Taron gets to dress Mari and Rosie up in identical dark green wetsuits, squeeze his bum and bulked up upper half in a black one himself, and drive the fifteen minute drive from his family home down to the Aberystwyth beach.

There's juice boxes and laughter and songs in the car, and it's all just fun and lovely and easy.

Gods, the girls really do sing like angels. For some reason, Taron and Mari end up doing a duet on _Love Is An Open Door_ from _Frozen_, while Rosie prefers to sing along to _I See The Light_ from _Tangled_. In both scenarios, Taron absolutely freaking _feels_ himself as the prince—Richard Madden _who_?—and gives the performance his all. As if he's back in that booth in Abbey Road. As if he's under Giles Martin's critical eye. As if this is going on actual tape, to be included as a track in the movie. As if he's Elton John all over again.

Fuck, how he misses it already.

Fifteen minutes later, though, every thought of Hollywood and Elton and movies and _complications_ is momentarily put to the side—Taron finds himself sighing in contentment as he dips his toes into the freezing sea water and grabs an armful of Bleddyn, then Jack, and then Tom. Three men he loves with every fibre of his being, who have always been there for him, through thick and thin, and… who now are effectively participating in the piss-taking party around the egghead. _Of course_.

“Honestly, the amount of times people have mispronounced your surname—are we allowed to call that a _premonition_?” Dickhead Number One (Jack) muses, fake-pensive, caressing his chin.

“Oh, shut the f—sod off, Sinclair,” Taron replies—his eyes shooting towards the children he’s promised he _definitely_ won’t be swearing in front of—and ribbing Jack playfully. “Gives me an occasion to start a new collection.”

“Of what, _wigs_?” Dickead Number Two (Tom) pitches in, merciless. Taron rolls his eyes at his friend and his fucking hipster-musician _man bun_. Tom gives him a gorgeous smile, and then bends down to help Bleddyn push the boat further into the water.

“If you really wanna know, you smug _arse_,” he says, unable to contain himself, “it’s _hats_. I’m collecting hats now.” He says all this in a slightly campier tone than he’s ever used with any of these men before. Just comes naturally to him, these days, he guesses. Not like Elton’s a particularly camp bloke, mind—but playing the man has made that aspect of Taron’s personality blossom over the past couple of months, and he’s absolutely _thriving _off of it.

“Guys, birthday present _sorted_,” Bleddyn says, chipper, rubbing his hands together before hopping in the boat in one swift movement. “C’mon, Eggsy, c’mon girls, c’mon lads—all aboard! Time to freeze our bottoms off!”

“Gonna have to do better than that, love,” Taron says, as he lifts Rosie up and hands her to Bleddyn. “Eggsy is literally everything I want to be in real life. Calling me that is _flattering_, if anything,” he continues, winking at his friend. He then supervises Mari, who has insisted on climbing onboard on her own, and jumps in himself. Jack and Tom follow, and everyone settles down as Bleddyn gets the small motor started.

As soon as they’re directly into the open wind and far out enough that the water is not shallow anymore, Bleddyn starts bossing everyone around.

“Taron, main sail. Jack, jib sail. Tom… babysitting duty,” he says, shrewdly.

“Why does Thomas always get the fun job, eh?” Jack complains, starting to walk towards the front of the boat.

“It’s a _tough_ job, thank you very much,” Tom corrects him, “but someone’s gotta do it! Have fun tugging on them ropes, lads!” he says, pulling the tie out of his hair and letting it flow in the rough breeze of St. George’s Channel.

“Careful, Tom!” Rosie comes in, urgently, immediately after Tom’s mane is free and fluttering. “You’re going to lose all your hair! Like Taron!” The genuine concern in her voice is palpable, as she stands on the bench that Tom is sitting on and starts to gather his hair together, lock by lock, in her tiny hands—with an extremely serious look on her face.

Mari just looks at Rosie and Tom and shakes her head, knowingly. Taron almost trips on a stray rope as he also observes the scene and does his best to stifle a fit of giggles.

“Honestly, _Eggerton_,” Jack yells, to make himself heard over the now positively violent wind that’s threatening to blow them away any minute now. Eggerton? With a hard G? The man’s known him since he was 14, he bloody well knows how to say his name—the absolute prick. “What have you been _telling_ these girls?”

“Just a bit o’ fun,” Taron plays it down. “_Dinnae_ worry, love. Mari didn’t buy it. Not even for a second.” Not quite sure why he's just put on a Scottish accent, there—some sort of Freudian slip, he supposes.

Jack’s eyebrows raise at that. And Taron can bet his arse this is not about Mari not being a naive child anymore. Jack moves closer to him and lowers his voice.

“_Dinnae worry_? Heavens, I see the accent contamination is going pretty well,” he says, appreciatively. “Have you by any chance also been engaging any other kinds of _contamination_, _Taran_?”

Jack only calls him that when he’s feeling cheeky. So, Jack calls him _Taran_ ninety-nine percent of the time.

“For one, there are _children_ here, Sinclair,” Taron admonishes him, through gritted teeth, but still curling his mouth up into a ridiculously big smile. “But secondly—yeah, yeah I have. I’ll tell you more later. Prom—”

“Oi, you two!” Bleddyn bellows, from where he’s sitting, next to the boat’s tiller. “Some help would be appreciated, you tossers!”

Tom—who is sitting with an arm around each girl and his hair blowing in the wind—looks right and left, from where Bleddyn’s sitting and Taron and Jack are standing, with a huge grin planted on his face.

“Yup, babysitting duty is _definitely_ the best gig, round ‘ere.”

The cruise goes on for what feels like ten hours, but realistically is probably only about two.

This definitely takes Taron back. Back to the first moment he stepped on a boat and sailed away with his mates and their instructor. Back when he was an unripe, useless blob of a teenager. Back to when he hadn’t even been kissed yet.

It was back then that he’d immediately noticed that time seemed to weirdly slow down, when one is at sea. He can very distinctly recall thinking that lying, sitting, or even standing on that cleverly designed mass of wood, metal and rope is probably the closest you can get to feeling like being back in the womb. Despite the heavy rain that he and the Aber boys inevitably did get caught under more than once—this is Wales, after all, not fucking Mallorca—Taron always, without exception, remembers feeling safe and protected and lulled and comforted by the constant rocking of the boat, by the smell of the sea, pungent in his nostrils, and by the promise of exploring what, at the time, were literal uncharted waters for all of them.

They’ve done it all, during the years. Explored the canal in its entirety, and even gone on multiple-day trips, a couple of times, managing to actually touch the Irish coast and go for an actual Guinness in actual fucking _Dublin_. This happened exclusively when Bleddyn’s dad graciously decided to lend them his fancy fifteen-metre Alinghi—and accompany them on the journey, of course—but, despite the adult company, it was always just… marvellous. Without fail.

Which is why Taron is so incredibly happy he now gets to share this same passion with his little sisters. Mari and Rosie are having the time of their lives—constantly being fussed over by Tom, who is taking babysitting duties _very seriously_. They giggle at Taron and Jack being ordered here and there by Bleddyn—who, for his part, barely moves from his seat next to the tiller. 

He steers the boat expertly for them to catch or decrease speed—depending on the general consensus—and not once does he get even close to turning the boat over, despite the wind being strong and merciless and doing its best to get all their arses in the dark, icy-cold water and freeze them to death. But Bleddyn is just _that_ good, and they get back to the beach safe and sound—if a little damp. And that is mostly from the rain, really, so it doesn’t even count.

Once they're back on terra firma, it quickly becomes very clear that the canonically poor Welsh weather and the fact that it’s very obviously not summer anymore—no matter how recklessly one might try to deny it by still deciding to go out to sea on a day like this—are definitely putting their plans for a picnic on the beach on hold.

Plus, on top of being hungry and thirsty, Taron is now also extremely cold. The sensible decision to make, then, is to part ways for a bit, take the girls home, shower, change into some comfortable, dry clothes, and meet the lads back at the pub for a very _not sensible _outing, that may or may not also involve day-drinking, fantastic pies, chips, cheesecake, and all the traditional Welsh tunes. He really wants to let his soon-to-be world-famous pipes do their thing—so he really cannot bloody wait for this.

** _Part IV - All these places had their moments, with lovers and friends, I still can recall_ **

_Two hours later_

As soon as he gets the girls safe and sound in Tina’s hands, Taron takes refuge under a scalding hot stream of water. He comes out fifteen minutes later, smelling like a Japanese bouquet once again, and ready for his very manly outing with all the lads.

His luggage contains a ridiculously big and ridiculously soft midnight blue jumper, which is his pick for the night. He takes it out and instinctively feels the luxurious cashmere and brings it to his nose, inhaling deeply.

It smells like Hugo Boss cologne and faintly of cigarette smoke. It smells like Richard. Which is fitting, since Taron actually stole it from him, before leaving for Wales.

He pairs it with some black skinny jeans and fumbles through his toiletries bag to look for hair wax, before he remembers there is no actual hair to style, and he dies a little inside.

He picks a black trilby out from the enormous suitcase he brought with him that is full to the brim with hats—yes, alright, he might already have gotten a head-start on the collection, but he’s got no hair and it’s basically winter, so he’s one-hundred-percent excused, thank you very much—and then gets his phone out and in selfie mode. He makes sure the jumper is in the shot and he pouts his parted lips, just a bit. He tries doing whatever the hell people do to look cute in selfies, these days—even if he really has no fucking clue. He just joined Instagram last week, after all.

He snaps a pic. His eyes are not in the frame, his jaw looks even sharper than usual—if he may say so himself—and he’s pretty satisfied with it. Then he takes another one. This time, he pulls the collar of the jumper up to cover a bit of his chin, bites down on the soft material, and lets his hand linger in the frame. He feels kind of ridiculous, if he’s honest, but he can’t really help it—Richard’s smell and the expensive wool are enveloping him like a warm, lustful embrace, and he just feels so goddamned _sexy_ in it. 

He sends both pics to Richard.

(4:46 P.M.) **Recognise this?**

Richard gets back surprisingly fast.

(4:47 P.M.) _You sneaky thief. But dear God do keep it, darling. Looks way better on you. _

(4:47 P.M.) _My mind is running a thousand miles an hour. I want you. I miss you. I love you._

Taron smiles down at the phone, as his heart swells up with joy. He’s also warm all over, because he’s now thinking of Richard bending him over a piece of furniture and having his way with him while he’s wearing the jumper. 

(4:48 P.M.) **The Madden Sex Appeal is seeping into me by osmosis. Thank you, my love. I also miss you and love you and want you. Mostly the last one, at the moment. God, have I ever mentioned you smell good?**

(4:49 P.M.) _Once or twice, I think. Damn. Is it Saturday yet?_

(4:50 P.M.) **Not quite, sadly. Soon, though. Meanwhile, you enjoy your time off and say hi to our sponsors from me.**

(4:52 P.M.) _You too, mo chrìdhe. Jeremy and Simon say hi back. They can’t wait to see the movie. Told them you’re alright in it._

(4:53 P.M.) **Uhm, excuse me? _Alright_?**

(4:54 P.M.) _Yeah, y’know. Nothing special._

Taron’s eyebrows raise in mock-outrage. But then the phone buzzes again, and his eyes threaten to fill with tears.

(4:54 P.M.) _Then again, not like I’m biased. Not like you’re the goddamned love of my life, or anything._

Taron bites down on his lower lip. Richard has said this before, of course—but, for some reason, seeing the words spelled out in writing has another effect. Makes them _permanent_. Not like he can't hear them all the same, anyways. 

(4:55 P.M.) **And you are mine. You big old sap. I love you, Dickie. **

_A few minutes later_

Taron takes a cab down to the centre of town, because he knows he will absolutely not be fit for driving by the time they're done. He sits in the back of the car, and for some weird reason he's reminded of an old song from his teens—so he sits in _going backwards_, fires up Spotify, and listens to another of the great British men born in 1986 sing about getting plastered, narrowly avoiding fights, and trying and failing to pick up birds. Aberystwyth is definitely not Sheffield—and there's definitely no _picking up birds_ business going on anytime soon—but Taron still feels that the song is extremely apropos.

_Red Lights_ transitions into _Dancefloor_, because the album's on shuffle, and Jamie unavoidably pops into Taron's mind. He smiles as he types out a text to him.

(5:05 P.M.) **I bet you look good on the dancefloor, Mister. We need to go clubbing together, when I get back.**

(5:07 P.M.) **_You've seen my moves, sunshine. Not really night club material, am I?_**

(5:08 P.M.) **Unlimited access to booze and the promise of heavy grinding enough to change your mind, love?**

(5:10 P.M.) **_Hmm. Depends on what you're wearing._**

(5:12 P.M.) **What do you want me to wear, you kinky bastard?**

(5:13 P.M.)**_ The gold hot pants would do, thank you very much. I'd follow you to any club you like if you wear those again. Maybe even to the ends of the earth, actually._**

Taron finds himself blushing furiously. Then, for good measure, he sends the blue jumper pics to Jamie as well.

(5:14 P.M.) **But it's cold, James. I covered up a bit tonight.**

(5:15 P.M.) **_Fuck, that's hot. How far is Aberystwyth from London again? Might be worth making the drive just to see you in that. _**

(5:16 P.M.) **I know an adorable 5yo blondie who would really disapprove of you doing that, at the moment. I miss you so much too but don't worry, honey, I’ll be yours in four very short days. I love you, ridiculous man.**

(5:17 P.M.) **_Counting the hours. Jack is buzzing to meet you next week, by the way. I love you too, sunshine. _**

Taron gets to The Ship and Castle pub at 5:30 P.M. on the dot. And yet, literally _all _the lads are already standing outside—something that, if Taron’s memory doesn’t completely fail him, has _never_ happened. He’s always perfectly on time, to these things, if not a little early. Today is no exception, either—he’s doing his best impression of Richard’s Piaget timepiece, as far as he’s concerned—and yet, each and every one of the boys taps on his watch, admonishing him for being the last one to get there.

“What in the name of sanity is going on ‘ere?” Taron asks, astonished, but grinning manically all the same. “I thought we said 5:30?”

“We did,” Bleddyn comes in nodding. “Except I took the liberty to plan this rare occasion well enough, in order to gather everyone at the same time to properly welcome you back, Egerton.” Soft G, thankfully. Bleddyn’s the best.

“Yeah, _Eggerton_,” Jack-the-absolute-dickhead says, pinching Taron’s bicep through his thick jumper. “Which, translated into English, means that Tom was told to come at 5:10, Craig at 4:45, Calvin at 5:45, and yours truly at the actual time Bleddyn meant for us to meet—because I, like your good self, am _always_ on time. And being on time means getting there five minutes early in my book, so I actually got here at 5:25.”

“Wow,” Craig says, covering his mouth and mock-yawning. “What a damn good story, Sinclair. Wish I’d recorded that—having trouble sleeping lately.”

“Fuck off, Craig, will you not,” Jack replies, sassily. Taron _loves _it when he’s sassy. “My point being, _Taran_,” he says, turning back to face Taron, who is already rolling his eyes at Jack pronouncing what should have been his first name, had his mam been able to spell properly, “Bleddyn is a fucking control-freak. And a bloody good one at that, since he managed to get everyone here at the perfect time. Oh, and I think you need to brace yourself for a group hug.”

“Sorry-not-sorry,” says Calvin, as he and the four other men with him close in on Taron like a horde of extremely touchy-feely vultures.

Ten whole seconds of Taron being buried within five masses of Welshness and testosterone pass, and Taron is overwhelmed by love and fulfilled _hiraeth_, and it's wonderful, and it's easy, and it's right. Until he finds himself gasping for air, and he has to wiggle like an eel to get out of the giant, collective cuddle.

“Alright, alright, calm down, you lot. Let a man breathe, won't ya?"

"We just missed you so," Calvin says, affectionately, stroking Taron’s shoulder as everyone else moves away from him. “Loving the hat, by the way. New look?”

“Oh, Calvin,” Man-Bun-Tom chimes in, sniggering. “You have _no idea_, mate.”

Taron flips the bird at Tom. Tom blows him a kiss.

Yeah. The Aber boys are back.

_Two hours (and several pints) later_

“…and then he asked me if he could fuck me against my wardrobe,” Taron slurs, swishing the last of his beer around in his glass and downing it. He and Jack are off on their own for a minute and he's taken the opportunity to bare all with his oldest mate. He sighs in satisfaction, and then he feels like adding the rest of it—because Jack can _definitely_ take it. “I believe his exact words were “harder than you’ve ever been fucked in your life”. Or something like that. Anyways, he then delivered.”

Taron’s head is light and he’s bouncy and silly and _drunk as fuck_, and the memories of Jamie and the most heated afternoon of his life are making him hot all over. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the wooden panel he’s been leaning on for a few minutes, now, taking it all in. When he opens them again, Jack is looking at him with his eyebrows raised and a wicked smile on his face.

“My days, _Taran_,” he says, appreciatively. “Channelling Elton John really does wonders for your sex life, dunnit?”

“S’pose it does, yeah,” Taron agrees, clutching his empty pint glass and laughing.

“Wondering if it’s too late for a career change,” Jack seems to ponder. “Haven’t gotten laid in six whole months myself, and then look at _you_, having Billy Elliot shag your brains out on the daily. That is _kinky_, by the way, just so you know.”

“Oh my God, Jack, _ew_,” Taron says, widening his eyes and curling his mouth up in disgust. “Not that innocent anymore, is he? Definitely a grown lad, now, y’know. In _every_ sense of the word,” he says, suggestively.

Jack rolls his eyes. “Oh, well, of _course_ Jamie Bell has a massive cock. Of course he does,” he says, way too loud for the non-existent Monday night buzz. Some heads turn towards them. Taron flushes purple.

“Will you _please_ keep your voice down?” he says to Jack, through gritted teeth.

Jack catches Taron’s eye and starts laughing. Taron tries to keep a straight face, but the alcohol in his veins and the idea of Jamie Bell’s impressive _gear_ being appreciated out loud in a half-empty pub in Aberystwyth is frankly too hilarious to resist—so he starts giggling too.

“Anyways,” Jack says, as soon as he’s calmed down a bit. “I remember you mentioning Scotland, some time ago. Care to elaborate on that one, too?”

Taron’s entire body catches fire at the thought of the Glasgow weekend on his best day. And now, as he’s high on love and friendship and excellent lager that tastes like home, it’s hitting him even harder.

“I think you need another drink for this, Sinclair. Hold on.”

Taron orders two more pints, cider this time, and he sits Jack down. He starts talking about the Martin and Dick and Pat Madden and the river Clyde and _tartan_—and he watches his friend’s face go through a rollercoaster of emotions, before Jack finally declares that he’s officially heard enough of Taron’s sex life to last him for a goddamned lifetime.

By the time they get back to the table, Jack is fanning himself. Tom and Bleddyn exchange a knowing look, while Craig and Calvin each have pretty obvious question marks painted on their furrowed brows.

Craig speaks up. “What’s with all the secrecy, egg-head?”

“Oh, not you too, darling,” Taron says, exasperated. He then turns to Jack—his confidant, his best friend—who’s looking pretty damn smug. “Can’t tell ya, otherwise it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?” He winks in the general direction of the men sat at the table in front of him, and he plops down on the seat on Craig’s right side.

“You’re no fun, Eggsy,” Calvin says, but he still wraps an arm around his shoulders and kisses the side of his head. Taron feels loved.

“Guys, guys,” he says, turning his head to look at each of his friends in the eye and smiling broadly at them. “Can I just say how much I appreciate you all coming out on a Monday night just to see me. I’ve missed you a fuckton, each and every one of you.” He then raises his pint glass and completes his toast, “_Iechyd da_, my friends. _Rwy'n dy garu di_.”

“_Iechyd da_!” everyone exclaims. Glasses clink together, beer and cider spill on the table, and everyone is drunk and cheerful, and Taron is so _happy_.

Apropos of _everything_, the lass behind the bar turns the music up at that point. It’s _Ar Lan y Môr_, and everyone knows it, and everyone jumps to their feet, and everyone sings his heart out to the sweet folk melody—and it’s wonderful. Taron finds himself wishing he could freeze time, or alternatively bring these boys with him wherever he goes, because very few people make him feel this completely and utterly at peace with himself and with the world. He’s always all over the place, doing his thing—and home is so, so far away all the bloody time—so, still having these men in his life really just feels like a huge fucking blessing.

Best night he’s had in a while, by a country mile.

** _Part V – A simple equation, with no complications to leave you confused—if this is love, then love is easy, it’s the easiest thing to do_ **

_Thursday, November 8th, evening_

It’s 7 P.M. and Taron, Mari, and Rosie are on the couch, watching _Frozen_. This is probably the third time the girls demanded to watch it this week alone—the other two times, Taron just caught bits and bobs of it when walking in and out of the living room, but tonight he’s actually made the active effort to sit down and watch the whole thing with them. And it’s amazing, of course. Every bit as incredible as it was when it first came out, a couple of years ago.

Taron may or may not know the whole soundtrack by heart, of course. The whole thing is made even better by the fact that, in the last few months, he has perfected his falsetto—a necessity, to properly perform some of the Elton songs he’s had to sing for the movie—and now even Idina Menzel’s highest pitches hold no secrets for him anymore. In fact, he nails every single note in the last chorus of _Let It Go_, which is higher than the two before, and he jumps to his feet using the remote control as a mic to deliver the end of the song. The girls just look at him _astonished_, for a few seconds, and then they start clapping and whooping and demand to re-watch the scene to hear him sing again. He delivers, of course.

He loves it—every minute of it. He loves singing, and he loves his girls. Being home is just so nice.

Way too quickly, it’s almost the end of the movie. Winter is over, and everyone’s happy, and Kristoff is _finally_ kissing Anna, and the girls (especially Rosie) are _awww_ing along. A few more minutes and another rendition of _Let It Go _later—gotta do the Demi Lovato version too, of course—and the girls are both curled up against Taron, happy as they can be. Taron turns the television off, he takes the final sip of hot chocolate left in his mug, and rests his head back against the couch. Then, he feels a light tap on his right shoulder, and hears a small voice calling.

“Taron?”

He turns to face Mari, who’s in full Elsa gear. “Yes, kitten?”

“Can I ask you a question?” she says, coyly, playing with the hem of her blue, sparkly skirt.

“Anything, sweet’eart.”

“Who… Who do you love, Taron? Have you got a princess, like Kristoff?”

“A _prince_, Mari,” Rosie butts in, unceremoniously. Taron looks at her—she’s also dressed up, like Princess Anna, and she has her hair in braids, and she’s adorable—and, wait, _what did she just say_? “He had the _prince_ on his phone!”

Oh, good God.

Five. His sister is _five years old_, and she’s got him all figured out.

Taron noticed once or twice before that, despite their tender age and the amount of Disney they've been consuming, both girls are familiar with and completely unbothered by homosexuality. Tina taught them well—compassion, love, acceptance, all the good stuff—and they also met Jack’s now ex-boyfriend multiple times, and they cheered at the hugs and kisses between them as enthusiastically as they always do for heterosexual couples. So, for the sake of giving an answer to Mari’s question and to address Rosie’s assumption, Taron should feel safe to be open and honest. Except…

“It’s complicated, my love,” he hears himself say—not really sure where it came from. Mari looks at him, confused.

“Why is it complicated, _arth_?” she asks, innocently. Her big, blue eyes are scrutinising him deeply, right now, and they demand an answer.

Taron feels vulnerable—yes, in front of an eight-year-old, but a very _mature _eight-year-old, alright?—so he turns to face the even smaller person on the right-side of him. Rosie is resting her head on her hand, her elbow perched upon her bent knee, and she’s looking dreamy and pensive.

“Complicated?” Rosie parrots her sister, clearly sounding like she doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

_Complicated_. A word Taron has associated with his infatuation for Jamie and Richard since day one—back when he was watching Jamie dance his heart out on the stage for his entertainment, and when he was witnessing Richard repeatedly fucking up the porch scene from _Tiny Dancer_ by saying Taron’s name instead of Elton’s, and when he was looking deep into Jamie’s eyes during _Your Song_, and when he was shamelessly tossing one off watching Richard half-naked in a hot tub in that stupid chick-flick—in short, back when nothing had yet happened.

_Complicated _is a word that he’s found himself repeating over and over and over again in his head, for weeks on end, picking it apart and putting it back together again, trying to find a meaning to it. Trying to understand why it seemed to describe his love life so well.

And then, as it turned out, Richard Madden kissing him felt like pulling on the right string to undo an apparently incredibly complex knot, only to find that the knot itself was really not as intricate as it had looked the whole time. The tension was there, of course—a whole truckload of it, in fact—but then Richard kissed him again and again and again for the cameras for what felt like hours on end, and then he went on to make love to him for an entire weekend after that. Which, against all odds, turned out to be the absolute _polar opposite _of complicated. It was simple and lovely and timely and just… right.

And similarly, actually, something that did not feel _complicated_ in the slightest was drinking with Jamie Bell and progressively letting himself go as the night went by. Caressing Jamie’s lean, muscular figure through his light T-shirt with the tip of his fingers came as easy to Taron as singing did, any day of his life. Closing the distance between them and letting his tongue tentatively graze against Jamie’s, then—that was also extremely uncomplicated. Natural, really—as was getting naked and ready for Jamie, and welcoming anything that he had to offer, and moaning his name into the little hours of the morning. Again, not complicated—just right.

Right after solving those two equations, what Taron thought could be complicated still was both Jamie and Richard accepting the idea of Taron being involved with both of them. And then, quite quickly, he was astounded to realise that this part of their dynamic too turned out to be simpler than he’d ever imagined. No friction, with either of them, just enthusiastic thirsty comments from each side. Taron had doubted both of their reactions at first—wondered whether they might be saying the things they were saying just to make him feel better—but then he’d noticed that Richard and Jamie actually started getting along like a house on fire. The switch happened approximately at the beginning of October, and now, more than one month later, Taron still marvels at the undeniable chemistry that has sparked between the two—and frankly can hardly wait to see how far it can go. So, yeah—his love life is surprisingly _not_ complicated in the slightest on that front either, it seems.

Wow, he really ought to change his answer, then, shouldn’t he?

“Actually, girls,” he says, with a big grin on his face. “I was wrong. It’s not really complicated. I’m in love, and I’m very happy, and everything’s going very well. And I think I can tell you who it is I love very soon. Just be patient, my sweets, alright?”

The girls both smile back at him and nod. Then Mari wraps her hands around Taron’s middle, and squeezes him tight. Rosie, for her part, lifts up on the couch by getting up on her knees and wraps her arms around Taron’s neck. The three of them stay like this for a while, cuddling, and Taron takes it all in, blissfully. It’s one of those moments when it really feels like he could cry like a baby, because children and family and generally just talking about love never fails to make him emotional. But he’s holding it in. He’s doing great.

Until, that is, the moment when Mari speaks up again. “I’m so happy you’re happy, _arth_. I love you.”

A treacherous tear rolls down Taron’s right cheek. _Damn_.

He squeezes Mari tight, not quite finding the words for a few seconds. He spends some time searching, but he finds that there is nothing else to say, except, “I love you too, kitten. Thank you, my sweet.”

“I love you, _arth_,” Rosie says, in Taron’s ear. Taron lets a few other stray tears get his face even wetter.

Rosie is apparently not done, though—she tightens her grip around his neck, and she whispers into his ear, impossibly softly.

“I really hope it’s the prince, Taron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are Elton, *Jamie-as-Bernie voice* the _fucking_ Beach Boys, Elton again, the Beatles, and McFly—for that extra bit of cheesiness that we always need when it comes to Taron chapters.
> 
> This one was so long to write and get right, but I’m glad we finally got there in the end. 
> 
> Egg-head Taron is definitely happening, people. And, considering his latest Instagram posts, it seems it might be happening again in 2019—wild, innit?
> 
> Here are the Bowie pics I described in part II: [one](https://www.pinterest.ch/pin/106116134947798082/%20rel=) and [two](https://www.snapgalleries.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/1.jpg%20rel=). Please, feast your eyes.
> 
> The conversation with Tina is fully inspired by this [interview](https://attitude.co.uk/article/read-rocketman-star-taron-egertons-attitude-cover-feature-in-full/21034/), which I suspect you will all be familiar with, by now. 
> 
> The sailing bit is completely made-up and self-indulgent—I love sailing myself, and it is a very popular activity in Wales.  
Moreover, I’m perfectly aware that Taron sounds a full twink in Richard’s blue jumper. I may or may not be extremely weak for the idea of him wearing Richard’s way-too-expensive clothes, and I may hint to him doing that a few times more, in upcoming chapters. What can I say. I’m only human.
> 
> Pub night on a Monday might sound like a wacky idea, so this is the moment when I kindly reassure you that they also ended up going for a pint on Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday (after Taron was done with _Frozen_)—I just thought I’d spare my lovely beta an extra 5k words of more or less R-rated Welsh banter, because this was already starting to get ridiculous.
> 
> I'm so happy to be posting this today, because Sunday was a great day for Aber content and—more specifically, Bleddyn. God, he really does [love](https://www.instagram.com/p/B4si_CqF9k0/) Taron a lot, doesn't he? Well done, sweet man. You _definitely_ deserved the heavy feature in this week's adventures.
> 
> _In fine_, the bit when the girls ask him who he loves—_that_’s the one I’ve had planned for ages and ages. Circling back to being hopelessly infatuated with his boys (back in chapter 3) and not knowing whether it would work out—and reflecting on how surprisingly easily it all fell into place. These three really are meant to be, I’m telling ye.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Next week we’re back to our resident anxious Scot, who’s also on a well-deserved week off at the same time as Taron. He’s catching up with lots of old friends, and he’s in love, and he’s also very confused. Tune in for more, on your weekly instalment of “oh-fuck-why-am-I-not-sleeping-with-Jamie-Bell-yet”.
> 
> Peace out, peeps.
> 
> Love,
> 
> C x


	13. 13. Richard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London is empty without Taron, so Richard decides to drive up to Underbarrow to live his _Lyrical Ballads_ dream.
> 
> Old friends, near and far, help him figure out how he feels.
> 
> Then, he finally (and quite literally) opens up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday, lovely peeps, and happy publishing day to me. I’m so glad I finally get to step off this _fucking_ rollercoaster of a chapter, and take a breather. Y’all don’t know how much I needed it.
> 
> I had so many different kinds of highs and lows, during the past week, and [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) was there through them all, as usual. I’m so, so grateful to you, dear—not only for finding the time to do my beta even when I’m this ridiculously late writing the whole thing, but also for being an incredible friend and writing partner and sounding board and [insert some more gushing here]. I love you a whole lot, and sorry-not-sorry for getting your Monday morning started *ahem* _right_. *angel face emoji*
> 
> Also, as per, thanks to my number one provider of insight on Richard Madden’s interior monologue, the woman who is single-handedly responsible for the whole Jamie/Richard dynamic being a thing in the first place, and the one person who was possibly the most excited about this chapter out of everyone in the world, [supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof). I hope I answered all your prayers, darling.
> 
> Onto Richie Rich, and his well-deserved break in the Lake District.
> 
> As a disclaimer, and in case the timestamps already within the chapter end up being confusing to you, this bit of the story does indeed happen on the same days during which Taron is in Aber, dealing with princesses and sailing and telling his best mate about Jamie Bell’s secret gift.
> 
> Here, we find Richard in his element—spoilt and pampered by the gays in a ridiculously big house. He’s up and far away from the troubles of modern life, and he’s enjoying a week away in one of the deepest and most beautiful corners of England. He’s completely relaxed and he’s _definitely_ not spending his every waking moment thinking of Jamie.
> 
> Oh, if only that last bit was true.
> 
> Now let’s get the hell on with this.
> 
> P.S.: there’s a lot of cameos in this.
> 
> P.P.S.: I almost didn’t finish this chapter, and then of course it’s become my longest chapter so far. Thirteen-_fucking_-thousand words. I don’t even know.
> 
> P.P.P.S.: Part II contains extensive descriptions and major spoilers for the Xavier Dolan movie _The Death and Life of John F. Donovan_. You’ve been warned.

** _Part I – When true love takes a grip it leaves you without a choice_ **

_Sunday, September 4th, late afternoon_

“Thanks, Si,” Richard says, as Simon is handing him a freshly mixed cocktail. He takes a sip. _Perfect_. “Damn, you sure do know how to make a Negroni, don’t ye?”

“Yeah, I know,” Jeremy intercedes, walking in the kitchen and joining them. “I’m the luckiest man in England.”

“That, my friend, is accurate,” Richard replies, patting Jeremy on the back and eyeing him and Simon alternatively. “And to think there was a time when I thought _I_ might have a chance with you, J. No, Mr. Rayner, _you_’re where it’s at.” He keeps his mouth slightly agape and winks at Simon while raising his glass. Simon raises an eyebrow back, fakes being flustered, and fans himself.

Richard really likes playing this flirty game with the pair of them. Whenever he’s in Jeremy and Simon’s company, he feels like he can let himself completely loose and say everything that’s on his mind—a big part of which is being explicit about his sexuality, which he normally _never _discusses with anyone else apart from his partners, and one or two other friends. As well as, more recently, Jamie Bell. _Whatever _Jamie is to him. The thought of it makes him weirdly anxious—a different species of butterflies than the ones that usually inhabit his stomach approximately eighty-five percent of the time he spends not sleeping. It doesn’t matter—getting to push all of that to the back of his mind for the time being, to enjoy an amazing Negroni and some lovely gay banter with his favourite gay friends, really feels like coming out of a cableway cabin at 3000m, basking in the sun and finally breathing some fresh air.

“Not sure whether you’re hitting on me or my husband, Dickie,” Jeremy says, as Simon reaches a hand out over the kitchen island to hand him his cocktail. “Thank you, my love. As I was saying—_this_ needs to stop. Immediately,” he says, gesturing between Richard and Simon, a sardonic smile on his face. Yeah, Jeremy knows and loves this game too. “Plus, a little bird tells me you’ve landed a great one as well, haven’t you, Rich?” he continues, bringing the glass to his lips and taking a tentative sip. He closes his eyes and smiles in delight.

Taron’s name hasn’t even been mentioned, and Richard’s already a lovestruck mess—there’s absolutely no chance in the _world_ that Jeremy hasn’t noticed him flushing crimson and biting the inside of his lower lip. And, yeah, Jeremy’s promptly raised eyebrows confirm Richard’s suspicions. He knows, alright.

How _did_ Richard get so lucky? He still needs to pinch himself, some days, because he cannot quite believe how far he and Taron have come, in the span of just a little more than three months. _Insane_, really. Their time together hasn’t been long, but there is so much to tell Jeremy and Simon already—so much to unpack with his oldest friend and his lovely, amazing husband, both of them great listeners and providers of sound advice. Heck, Richard wants to tell them both the whole story from A to Z. He’s even considering going into great detail about _Jamie_, too—given how confused Richard’s been about the man, lately, and how bloody much he’s been on Richard’s mind, maybe that’s not a bad idea?

Jeremy’s had many open relationships, before Simon. Not like Richard hasn’t. He’s seen his fair share, too—has never really minded his lover becoming involved with someone else—which is the reason behind the whole Jamie-and-Taron thing never really being a problem to him. But he never really was the one to feel the need for a second _partner_ for himself, when he was completely happy with one person already. Wanting two people at the same time, he kind of gets—having _feelings_ for them? That’s _completely_ different. Richard fancies himself monogamous at heart, and having feelings for someone else other than Taron—his love, his heart, his light, his everything—is suddenly really fucking scary.

Jamie has been on Richard’s mind _a lot_, lately. What got into him, back on Monday, when he decided to reach a hand out, let his fingers come into contact with the soft skin on Jamie’s neck, and caress him longingly there—and in _public_, no less? Richard has tried and failed to find an answer to that question for six whole days. He supposes part of it was to somehow make his desire for the man explicit through actions, rather than words—since he, unlike Jamie or Taron, has never been a champion at those. So much is going on in his head at any given time, but actually voicing it is usually so goddamned difficult that, for the sake of simplicity, Richard only does so when he’s absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure of what he wants to say. And, right now, he’s absolutely, one-hundred-percent bloody _not_. Despite their constant back-and-forth daily texting—yes, Jamie texts Richard _a lot_, and Richard always texts him back—they haven’t talked about that episode, yet. And now the bloody film is bloody done, and God knows when they’ll bloody see each other again.

Richard knows he’s completely out of his depth, and he has no clue what to do, say, or even think about it—about Jamie—most days. Maybe Jeremy will have some insight?

Richard’s gotten stuck in his own head, as per, and he only realises it because Simon clears his throat and breaks the now deafening silence that has momentarily settled between the three of them.

“Earth to Richard? You alright, love?”

“Ugh, sorry, Si. Aye, I’m alright. Bloody tired, though,” he replies, shaking his head and running a hand through the front of his hair. He then remembers Simon actually asked him a question, before, and he’s still waiting for an answer. “And God, yes—you have no idea how incredible Taron is. I think he might be the one, guys,” he says, looking alternatively at Jeremy and Simon, smiling coyly.

He then analyses what he’s just said. “The one”. The _one_. But then, what about Jamie? What is Jamie in this scenario? Can _two_ people be the one? In what universe does that make sense?

“It’s so nice to see you this happy, love,” Simon tells him, affectionately. “Where is Taron, this week, by the way? Was hoping we could finally meet him. Your backs-and-forth on Instagram have started to become _unbearable_. We want the whole truth—straight from the horse’s mouth.”

Something grabs a hold of Richard’s heart, then. It feels like Taron is several galaxies away, right now—even though Aberystwyth is only four hours away by car, really, and he realises how ridiculous he sounds—but, considering that they haven’t spent more than a day apart in the whole of the past three months, Richard’s anticipating that this week in the Lake District will feel like a lifetime. Even if he’s spending it with his favourite friends and their multitude of canine companions, he will be missing Taron a whole goddamned lot.

God, he’s hopeless. But he can’t really help being in love, now, can he?

“He went back to his Mum’s in Aberystwyth,” Richard says, looking away from Simon and mindlessly toying with his glass. “Taking a few days off. He deserves it, really—he worked so bleeding hard, non-stop, for _months_. I don’t really know how he did it, to be honest.”

“Having _you_ around surely would have helped, darling,” Jeremy offers, a benevolent glance in Richard’s direction.

Richard looks up from where the dark liquid swirling around in his glass is starting to hypnotise him, before he gets lost in his own head.

_Not just me_, he wants to say to Jeremy. Should he say something? Is this the moment to mention Jamie? Does Richard really want to do _this_, _now_?

Ah, fuck it. Yes, he does.

“Jamie’s been there quite a bit, too, y’know.” It feels good to get that one out, for some reason.

“Ah, yes, Jamie’s a real peach, I’ve heard,” Simon replies. “Not stealing your man away, though, I trust?”

Richard feels blood rush to his face as the chord is being struck. He knows he rarely manages to hide anything from these two.

Right. Here we go, then. Time to spill the beans. Time to lay it all out.

One full hour, several _ooh_s and _aah_s, and a few glasses of Negroni later, Jeremy and Simon are finally up to speed. They’re all sitting in the living room, by now—Jeremy next to Richard, Simon opposite the two—on the couple’s insanely big and comfy couches.

“Well, fuck me, Richard Madden,” Jeremy says, appreciatively, turning to look at him in the eye. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

Richard can’t help but raise his eyebrows and widen his eyes, at that. Jeremy normally _never_ swears, if he can avoid it. This must have seriously shaken him, then.

“I know. Not my gig, normally—_polyamory_,” he says.

The last word comes out of his lips and he feels like he’s speaking a foreign language. The idea of loving two people at once is, again, completely fucking barmy to Richard. And yet, his heart flutters every time his phone buzzes, because he hopes it’s Jamie texting him. That doesn’t happen when Taron messages him—not any more. Richard still gets giddy at reading his name on the screen, of course, and he still texts back a panoply of tooth-achingly sweet or unspeakably dirty things all the time, but, when it’s Jamie, Richard feels like a goddamned schoolboy on his first ever crush.

He’s _absolutely_ fucked.

“So what?” Simon asks. “Never too late to let your heart explore new horizons, now, is it?” He makes it sound so simple, when it’s so bloody not

“I want to, I really do. Once I woke up and I realised mid-breakfast that I’d had a dream about kissing him. It was just _kissing_, nothing else, but I still had to take a cold shower after that. And then it happened again—three more times, actually. And I,” Richard clears his throat, “I decided to, uhm, _take care _of things, as it were, by the second time. So, yeah. This is where I’m at.”

“I mean,” Jeremy says, taking a sip of his drink and resting a comforting hand on Richard’s forearm. “Can’t really blame you for that. For any of it, really. But, if you want my opinion, on a purely shallow note, he’s just… drop-dead gorgeous. Sorry, my love,” he then adds, turning to his husband. “Just giving credit where credit is due.”

“Oh, honey,” Simon replies, knowingly, “We might be married—but I still have eyes too, you know.” Jeremy blows him an ironic kiss. Simon winks at him.

“Yeah, he’s fucking gorgeous,” Richard acknowledges, out loud—maybe a bit too loud—for the first time. Wow, who needs a therapist when one has two very talkative and encouraging gay men on top of one’s friend list, really, eh?

Jamie’s looks are, however, not the point. “It’s just… I don’t know. I’m scared to say anything. What if I fuck it all up? What if he’s not interested, and that makes things weird between him and Taron? Between me and Taron?”

Richard glances at Simon as he and Jeremy exchange a knowing look. He groans, loudly. “What?”

“Dickie, love,” Jeremy starts, moving his hand up to benevolently caress his shoulder. “I know it’s scary. These things are never easy, are they?”

“Absolutely not,” Simon adds, leaning over to rest his now empty glass on the coffee table. “I get why you’d be terrified, Rich.”

“Taron is so good for you, though,” Jeremy continues, seriously, “and he sounds like he’s completely _bloody_ head over heels with you—and Jamie, too. He sounds to me like someone who loves with all his heart, and who would completely understand that you’d get infatuated with, well… the other man he loves.”

“Ready to bet this house, the garden, the pool, and even Hector on the fact that Taron would think himself the happiest man alive if he saw you and Jamie give each other the eye,” Simon says, confidently. He winks at Richard, then blows a kiss in Jeremy’s direction.

“Oh, _alright_,” Jeremy says, appreciatively, grinning against the rim of his glass as he takes the last sip of his drink. “I mean, in normal times, I’d say you’re absolutely crazy, love. The house? _Hector_? C’mon,” he says, mock-outraged. “But Richard, my darling, let me tell you—I’m one hundred percent with Si on this one. Because it’s a riskless bet. Taron’s already seeing the two of you. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on. And there’s this thing in polyamory, where seeing your lover with someone else makes you happy, not jealous. That boy _would_ be on seventh _fucking_ heaven if you and Jamie ended up rolling round on a bed together.”

Oh, sweet Lord. Jeremy is really swearing a lot, isn’t he? He must really mean it, then. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Do these men maybe have a point? Would the idea of Richard getting down and dirty with Jamie make Taron _that_ happy? Is it worth giving it a go?

And then it suddenly hits him. His mind flies up and away to his beloved homeland, a wedding, a public bathroom, a kilt, and those _videos_ he was so bold as to think of taking. It was all in the spur of the moment, and he couldn’t really think straight—his animal instincts had completely taken over. Besides, he never, _ever_ thought of seriously sending the stuff to Jamie—in fact, after one full week, the idea of those videos is still burning a hole in Richard’s mind, on and off—and in his phone’s memory, too, since he still hasn’t mustered the courage to actually hit _send_ and hope for the best. Then again, Taron _really_ didn’t seem to have anything against it—quite the contrary, in fact—and Jamie’s name was _definitely_ front and centre, in both instances.

Oh, God, maybe Jeremy and Simon _are_ right. Maybe Taron _would_ be over the bloody moon about Richard crushing over Jamie—and low-key wanting to ride him into the sunset. Because, well, yes—Richard has a prostate too. And yes, Richard has heard stories about Jamie’s _gift_ from Mother Nature. And, fucking _yes_—he really, _really_ would like to check it out for himself, thank you very much. Except…

“It’s not really just about the sex, though, is it?” Richard says, voicing the rest of his thoughts. “I mean, that’s a huge chunk of it, for sure…”

“Pun intended, love?” Jeremy teases, merciless. Richard rolls his eyes, and flushes purple.

“J, _please_,” Richard begs him, downing a generous gulp of Negroni and resting his empty glass next to Simon’s. He rests his back against the couch, sighing loudly. “What I mean is… I think I might have _feelings_ for this man.”

Jeremy and Simon exchange the umpteenth married-couple look of the evening.

“I maintain, Dickie, that Taron wouldn’t mind that in the slightest,” Jeremy replies.

“But…” Richard objects, before Simon cuts him off.

“But what if Jamie is not interested?” he asks, reading Richard’s mind.

“Aye. What if he’s never thought of me like that?” Richard asks, nervously, to no-one in particular.

“Ah, right. That’s our Dickie, alright,” Jeremy says, glancing at him with the air of a man who’s seeing history repeat itself. “Dear God, love, have you _seen_ yourself lately—or ever, really? Do you realise how people act around you? You’re possibly the most desirable and desired man currently alive, and—no, no, don’t, I know what you’re going to say,” he anticipates, as Richard opens his mouth to argue. “It’s not _just_ about your looks, darling. It’s your mind, too. And your heart. How could anyone not fall in love with you, really?”

“C’mon, Dickie. Give us a break, here. Do you know how bloody tedious it’s gotten to swat away all the marriage proposals that we get for you?” Simon backs Jeremy up, assertively. “You’re perfect, dear. Inside and out. And Jamie would _definitely_ be up for it. _All_ of it, I mean. Plus, you said it yourself—there was a _connection_ between the two of you, when you went on that date…”

“_Not_ a date, Si,” Richard promptly stresses. God, all the praise is getting him a tad flustered. Is this why Taron likes it so much?

“Yes, yes, sorry, Rich. You and Jamie, alone at a small table, exchanging looks and childhood stories, and having _very_ no-homo skin-to-skin contact… No, you’re right. _Definitely _not a date.”

**_Part II -_ _But what do you know? You know nothing_**

_Monday, September 5th, evening_

“Right, Dickie. I distinctly remember being promised a world-exclusive first look at the newest Xavier Dolan exploit. Shall we?” Jeremy says, after the washing up is done and the 18-year-old Dalmore is poured.

Ah, yes. Kit. God bless Kit. The movie did not do well in Toronto, for some reason—Kit Harington playing gay just sounds _delightful_ to Richard (and besides, have people _seen_ the man, these days?)—and Kit really wants an opinion before it actually hits the big screen early next year. Not like Richard can change anything about it, anyways. But, as it happens, in the many years spent in each other’s company, Richard was only half-surprised to realise that Kit loves being self-deprecating as much as Richard himself does. And, since discovering this about each other, they’ve always relied on each other to put out their respective anxious fires.

Richard hasn’t even read the plot. He just got sent a random envelope containing a bloody USB stick, a couple of weeks back, and attached to it was a note reading _Couldn’t stop thinking about you while making this. I hope you don’t hate it._ It wasn’t signed, but Richard would know that posh boy calligraphy _anywhere_. He called Kit to promise he’d watch it on his break—so here he is, now, with Jeremy and Simon, about to feast his eyes.

As Simon is setting up the television to read the movie from the fecking USB stick and Jeremy is settling down on the couch in front of it, Richard plops down on an armchair and takes his phone out of his pocket. He sends a text to Kit.

(7:47 P.M.) _Hello, bastard._

Richard’s phone buzzes almost immediately.

(7:47 P.M.) My liege. To what do I owe the pleasure?

(7:48 P.M.) _Finally watching your new flick, brother. Excited._

(7:49 P.M.) Ooh, I’m way more excited than you are! Please let me know what you think of it.

(7:49 P.M.) I hope it resonates with you as much as it did with me.

(7:50 P.M.) _Call later?_

(7:51 P.M.) You bet. Enjoy, Young Wolf.

They’re only five minutes into _The Death and Life of John F. Donovan_ when Richard officially decides that he has no idea what the critics who seem to be shitting on it are on about—Kit sent him tens of bad reviews, with strings of crying emojis attached to them that got progressively longer every time. Richard has categorically refused to open any of them, because he knows that even just skim-reading one can taint his enjoyment of a film—and he wants to make his own opinion of the damned thing before anyone else tells him how he should feel about it, thank you very much.

Admittedly, the credits do make this movie seem feel like a reboot of _Friends_, but then—_oh, hello_, there Kit is, looking gorgeous and moody and… Yup, still got the Jon Snow hair. And, wow, is that an _American accent_? Jesus Christ, the movie has barely started, and Richard’s heart is already about to burst.

Kit plays an actor, in this, it seems. Here the man is at a fashion photoshoot, and then there’s a premiere and flashes and a beautiful woman by his side, and when Richard listens to him say “I’m the luckiest man in the world” he doesn’t really believe a word of it. _Definitely _a thespian, then.

It quickly becomes obvious that this story is not only about an actor, but of a former _child_ actor, who is now extremely fucking famous. He’s all over telly and movies, and everyone seems to love him to bits. This incipit alone is ringing all kinds of bells in Richard’s head—they’re fucking Westminster-Abbey-on-the-day-of-the-Royal-Wedding level-loud, really. And then, well, it becomes possibly even worse: the story ties in with another child actor, named Rupert, who is _obsessed_ with Kit’s character. The kid is bullied at school for being a child actor—and he’s called names in class, in front of everyone. _Gay boy_, they say to him. Richard is struggling not to get stuck in his own head, because he _really_ wants to give this movie his full attention—but, damn, it’s hard not to fly back to childhood trauma, isn’t it?

“The guys at school were mocking me for being the new guy, the child actor. All my dreams had disappeared. The only one that had survived was… John,” Rupert is saying. Oh, alright, so this kid is in love with Kit. He’s writing _letters_ to the man, and Kit is writing back. Richard is aware that he should really stop calling him “Kit”—although that long-haired, puppy-eyed, gorgeous, loveable, _incredible_ man will always be _Kit_, in his mind. But he does have to make an effort, because he realises that here, now, Kit is actually John F. Donovan. He’s famous, and everyone’s in love with him—this boy especially, it seems.

And Richard can’t really blame him, really—because, sweet God, K—_John_’s _bonny_.

Richard takes his phone is out again, just for a split-second.

(8:14 P.M.) _You are stupidly good-looking in this. How dare you._

He pockets the blasted thing immediately after, though, because he doesn’t want to miss a single beat of the movie.

Back on screen, John is inside a dimly lit room at a party and, most importantly, he’s interacting with a man. Talking very closely, smiling wildly, looking positively _dreamy_. And, well, the way he glances at his supposed wife wouldn’t fool even the most unsuspecting churchgoer—this man is _clearly_ not interested in the company of women.

Wait. Is Kit playing _gay_ in this one? Oh, God, he _is_, isn’t he?

Richard really should have suspected it—this is Xavier Dolan, after all. But, fuck, it's still a lot.

What is especially hard, for some reason, is watching Kit spend an entire evening alone with a man—take him back to his hotel room, flirt with him and… send him away.

_Oh, come on._ John can’t be a _closeted homosexual_ too, right? Then again, they did just refer to this man as _some company he couldn’t afford having_, so… Ah, _goddamnit_, Kit. Richard is already feeling called out by this movie enough as it is—there was really no need to add _this_ on top of the pile.

Immediately after pondering this, Richard is taken back to the present when John is suddenly _screaming_ (no-one would have the courage to call that _singing_) to Green Day’s _Jesus of Suburbia_, and it’s endearing and hilarious, and it reminds Richard of his teenage years, when he used to do exactly the same. Also, Richard suddenly finds himself feeling a little bit better about his own singing during Carpool Karaoke, last week. At least he had Taron to beautifully drown out the sound of his screeching, eh?

Oh, well. This is way too good, so it's time to text the new King in the North _again_, Richard guesses. He picks his phone up and—oh, Kit seems to have replied to his thirsty remark from earlier, too.

(7:57 P.M.) Coming from a literal Greek god, I’m definitely flattered.

Richard shakes his head at the words, and he scrunches his nose up, as is his habit whenever someone compliments him in any way.

(8:36 P.M.) _Oh, shut up, silly man._

(8:36 P.M.)_ Also, by the way, next time I see you we definitely need to sing some songs together. I’ll video you doing _Jesus_ again._

(8:37 P.M.) No fucking way in hell, Madden.

(8:38 P.M.) _Oh, but you need to do it for me, Kit. Pretty please? I hear Billie Joe and his wife are big fans of Thrones, anyways. He may appreciate it._

(8:39 P.M.) Just watch the stupid film, Robb, and call me later? P.S. You’re the worst.

(8:40 P.M.) _I am. And you love it_.

No real time to check for an answer, though, because Jeremy is waving his hand between Richard’s face and the phone to stop him staring at it. Richard looks up and sticks his tongue out at him—but he knows Jeremy's right, of course, since a _lot_ is happening on the screen. Again. Because this movie won’t give Richard a _fucking_ break, apparently.

First and foremost, Susan _fucking_ Sarandon is playing Kit’s mother, and Richard is _living_ for it.

Secondly—blimey, Kit’s American accent really is on point. Richard thinks back to the sound of Glasgow slipping out of his lips on multiple occasions when he was being interrogated by a very angry and very convincingly American Idris Elba in _Bastille Day_, and he cringes. A lot.

Finally, and maybe most importantly—John now seems to be in a club, signing his autograph on women’s boobs (_classy as fuck, brother_), and then he’s magically half-naked and he’s being showered in alcohol—and Richard barely has time to blink before John is actually kissing a guy on the dancefloor, which results in Richard forgetting to breathe for a good ten seconds.

Cut to the pair snogging in the back of a car, and to the guy sucking John off, and them kissing again, and it’s all so _hot_—and Jeremy and Simon seem to agree, because Simon has a bit of his light jumper bunched up between his fingers, and Jeremy has a hand in front of his mouth, biting lightly at the knuckle of his index finger. Yup, a bunch of thirsty queens, right here.

On the other hand, Kit’s character is quite obviously in the closet—very _deep_ in the closet, in fact. _This is wrong, this is trouble, I can’t afford this_, he’s saying. And it all sounds way too familiar, to Richard. Way too close to home.

Then, back to the kid—who, by the way, is fucking _incredible_. Everything Richard ever wanted to be, as a wee lad—loud, well-spoken, versatile, capable of effectively portraying a full range of emotions in an extremely believable way—the perfect example of someone who should definitely be allowed to skip school and be driven to auditions all over the country. Except Richard never was this good, as a boy, was he? He was but a fat Scottish kid who dreamt of making it big in the world. He spent _years_ waiting for it to happen, too… Eh, fuck. Who gave Xavier Dolan the right to cram Richard’s whole life and dreams into a two-hour piece of entertainment?

Richard immediately has to put that thought on hold, though, because something else happens, right after. Rupert’s dreams of acting are all but shattered. His mother is extremely cross at him, and she’s punishing him by not letting him go to an audition that, according to the boy, could _change everything_. Richard finds it extremely ironic that the woman playing his mother is Natalie Portman, of all people. Only the _empress_ of child actors herself—no big deal, eh? The casting for this film really is on point.

And then it all dawns on Richard, like a cool ocean wave waking up his senses and pulling him into the blue unknown of his thoughts—where, if he’s not careful, he will most definitely drown. He is suddenly reminded of Jamie saying something about Natalie Portman, when he was talking about child actors.

_Jamie_. Of course. Another reason why this movie is having such an effect on Richard. He really wants to call Jamie up the minute he’s done with the movie and ask him for another session of oversharing about their past, but he probably shouldn’t. Just a little less than twenty minutes left in the film... surely he can resist?

Richard is then once again yanked back to the film when John is in the frame again, sitting at a table with his hair in a ridiculous man bun—and Kit has never looked more than Jon Snow _ever_, not even when playing actual fucking Jon Snow. And then Jon Snow is randomly smoking a joint, naked in a bathtub, and _fuck, that’s so hot, why is that so hot?_ Is this even allowed?

Back on the rollercoaster Richard goes, though, because the story is coming to a close, and the next scene gets a real solid and inescapable grip on Richard’s heart. Rupert’s mother is reading the suicide note that John has left for Rupert, and it’s this:

_You know, I’ve given my all to this life. I’ve worked at my craft, my career, my reputation. I’ve worked on friends, on family. In the midst of all that work, the thing I forgot to work on is myself. In the years when most boys became men, I became a celebrity._

_Rupert, I wish for you to live a life of recognition and fulfilment, yes, but mostly—I wish for you to _live_. Live, before you lie. Because this is what it’s all about, unavoidably. But some lies are some artists’ greatest performances, and some lies I think are… pure beauty._

_But you are too pure to lie now. Because I know your fantasies. Because I know your desires. I also know the disappointment and the loneliness that you will, inescapably, feel._

By the end of it, Richard is _tearing up._ Seriously? Embarrassing. Is Jeremy really putting an arm around his shoulders and kissing his head? And is Richard _really_ weeping into his chest? Might have something to do with the bloody letter, and the movie being done, and John dying, and him never even having the chance to publicly come out.

And, as this all wasn’t enough, here comes the last exchange between grown-up Rupert and the woman he’s been telling the whole story about John to.

“I hope you get what you want,” she wishes him.

“I already have what I want,” he says, smiling, before getting out of the café they’re at, hopping on the back of a scooter, hugging his _boyfriend_, and riding away.

Jeremy affectionately strokes Richard’s hair, and Richard feels soothed and protected—although it does feel _weird_ to even feel the need to be comforted at all. He normally never cries at movies—but this was all way too much.

They sit through half of the end credits, and then Simon makes the smart decision to turn the television off. He glances fondly at Richard, who is still in Jeremy’s arms, and Richard looks back at him, through wet eyelashes and a lingering film of tears.

“Oh, darling,” Simon coos, getting up from his portion of the couch to move closer to them. He kneels on the carpet and his eyes are in Richard’s, at the same level, now, because Richard’s head is resting on Jeremy’s thighs, to allow for more effective comforting. Simon reaches a hand out and caresses Richard’s cheek with his thumb, picking up a bit of the moisture left there.

Richard distinctly feels like a child, but he quickly decides he does not much care, after all. Heck, he’s allowed to be childish, at times. And he’s also allowed to be emotional. The latter he forgets about, most days—especially lately, since he’s spent months being strong and putting on an unbreakable front for someone else, someone so goddamned important to him—and what happens is he ends up bottling it up, careful not to lift the cork too much when he stuffs more and more feelings inside still.

Nevertheless, approximately once a month, he falls apart. It usually happens when he’s listening to music and a particular line resonates a tad too much with how he’s been feeling, or when he’s in the shower, alone with his thoughts, or when he sees something that reminds him of one or more of those emotions that he’s been trying so hard to repress. He’s a mess for ten to fifteen minutes, then he composes himself, and he’s ready to start the cycle all over again.

When it happens, he’s usually alone. Now, he’s not. And maybe, just maybe, it’s for the best. Richard closes his eyes and they all stay like this, in silence, for a while. He feels Jeremy and Simon’s hands meet and their fingers entwine over his arm, and he feels safe and peaceful and at home.

As Richard opens his eyes again, he sees Simon smile at him, and he feels like smiling back, so he does. He also knows it’s maybe time to compose himself and say something. He gets back into a sitting position, and he looks between the two men to whom he always turns for moral support, and he immediately knows that there’s no real need to _say_ anything—because Jeremy and Simon know it all too well already.

He just says, “Thank you,” and that’s plenty. He hugs Jeremy tightly, hoping to convey all the gratitude and love and friendship that are filling his heart, at the moment, and then Simon joins in the tight cuddle, and Richard feels tears prickle his eyes again—the good kind, this time—and he allows one or two to roll down his cheeks, for good measure.

When it’s all over, Richard breathes out heavily, and he feels like a humongous weight has just been lifted off his shoulders.

“Alright, then,” he says, surprised at how _brisk_ he sounds. He gets up from the couch, and he pats his pockets, looking for something. “That was… something. I’ll just…”

“Out for a _wee fag_ and calling the boyfriend, I suppose?” Jeremy says, nonchalantly, looking at the square-shaped bulge in Richard’s right pocket and pulling Simon in closer.

Richard smirks down at the pair of them. “Definitely yes to the _wee fag_, but the boyfriend is out with his lads tonight. Next best thing is the _bawbag _who just turned me into a weeping mess, I guess. Be right back, _m'eudail_.”

He takes a few steps towards the exit to the terrace and he gets out in the chilly November night, cursing himself for not grabbing a scarf. As the cold and the humidity seep through his light cardigan and T-shirt and reach his bones, though, he realises that the chilly air is not that bad, after all—his head is crystal clear, and he feels like a new man. He lights a cigarette, and he taps on the telephone icon next to Kit’s name to start the call.

Kit picks up right after the second ring.

“Well, that took a while,” he says. “Did you hate it?”

“Kit…”

“Oh, God, I knew it. You did hate it. It was _a dubious mess_, wasn’t it?”

“Mate…”

“No, no, sorry,” Kit says again, not letting Richard get a word in. “More like, _a spectacular mash of half-baked ideas_, wasn’t it?”

“_Christopher_.”

Silence on the end of the line. _Finally_. It lasts for approximately three seconds, but having cut the incessant anxious babble about bad reviews is already a small victory, as far as Richard is concerned.

“That’s my name, isn’t it?” Kit says, his voice smaller all of a sudden.

“Ye ken what it means when I call you that, don’t you?”

“Hmm-hmm. Alright, alright. I’ll stop being a mess and quoting _The Guardian_ at you, and I’ll let you say your piece. Sorry, Dickie.” Richard hears the apologetic, shy smile in his voice, and he melts slightly.

“Most gracious of you, brother. So… I fucking loved it.”

“Oh? Really? You’re not just saying it to make me feel better, are you?”

“When am I _ever_ gentle to you, Kit? Us Scots tell it like it is. You should know it better than me—you _married_ one.”

“Rose and her boarding school posh manners _really_ don’t count as Scottish anymore, I’m afraid…”

“_Hooever_ it might be,” Richard cuts him off, impatiently, “Back to the bloody movie. You are flawless in it, and the story is incredible, and I most definitely could write an essay on how much this whole thing resonated with every fibre of my being. And I might well do that, if you don’t stop me.”

“Only things I’ve been reading these days are _Thrones_ NDAs, so that would be a welcome change, to be honest,” Kit says, chuckling. “Although you were always better at the spoken word, Madden. Care to elaborate now, maybe?”

“_Better at the spoken word?_ I'm sorry, Kit, have we met? Not exactly Stephen Fry, am I?" Richard says, properly chuckling at the nonsense just out of Kit's mouth. "But still, it will be my pleasure to try and trump those ridiculous self-proclaimed film critics.”

Richard launches into a monologue that lasts at least forty-five minutes. He literally pours his heart out, finally taking his foot off the brakes and pressing the accelerator in earnest. He tells Kit about the movie, and then he expands on some of the things they’ve never actually talked about in depth, some things Kit _knows nothing_ about—there was never enough time, and when there was, Richard was usually too tired or way too deep in character to just shuck his virile, impassable Robb persona and get in the mood for sharing. Now, letting it all out and sharing his deepest darkest secrets and fears with a man he's sure he will always be able to count on, Richard just _knows_ he’s listened and cherished and loved and understood, and it feels so good and oh-so right.

He even tells Kit about Jamie—because the child actor spiel is front and centre in their discussion—and what Richard still refuses to call a _date_, and about them getting tipsy and over-sharing childhood memories and past experiences. _Kit, I think I love this man_ is something that comes out of Richard’s lips, at some point, and Kit says it sounds like he’s found his soulmate—so naturally Richard _has _to tell Kit all about Taron, too, and Kit listens again and he feels like he's back in the kitchen with Jeremy and Simon a couple of days ago, because Kit's reactions are also reduced to a giant bunch of _ooh_s and _awww_s and _ohmygod_s throughout the whole thing.

By the time he’s done, they’ve been on the phone for an hour and a half, and Richard feels like he’s gotten out of the most successful therapy session of his life. Not like Kit is licensed or anything—he’s just a fucking great friend.

“That was a lot, huh? I’m sorry, mate. I guess I needed it all out.”

“Hey, never apologise to me, brother. You know we’re the same.”

“We most certainly are.”

“I got you, Richie.”

“Thank you. I got you too, by the way. And I miss you so _fucking_ much, Kit.”

“Hey, I miss you too, you fool. Always busy, always filming, always on the other side of the world...”

“In London next week, though! And I literally have _nothing_ to do. You around at all?”

“I am indeed, and not busy either. Well, apart from the final rehearsals for the play on Monday and Tuesday, but other than that I’m free as a bird.”

“Wednesday, then. Call Alfie up too.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“It’s _Your Grace_ to you, bastard.”

“How could I forget. See you next week, _Your Grace_. Thank you for this. Good night.”

“Good night, brother. Thank _you_.”

Richard taps on the red button to end the call and he smiles down at the phone, more untroubled than he’s ever felt for months. He breathes in the cold night air, lights another cigarette, and closes his eyes, feeling the sounds of the incredible nature around him caress his eardrums and thinking fleetingly of daffodils and young love, and how good it is to finally be at peace with the world—but also, most importantly, with himself.

** _Part III – Someone he can trust, someone with a bowtie_ **

_Tuesday, November 6th, early afternoon_

The mud is soft and thick beneath Richard’s wellies as he walks in the heavy rain. Jeremy and Simon’s _mansion_ (Richard categorically refuses to call it anything else) stands proud on the hill as it ever has—and Richard possibly loves it even more in the shitty early November weather than he does during the long days of summer, and he’s so incredibly _grateful_ he’s getting to spend a couple of days here, now that there’s absolutely zero point of him being in London—what with Taron being away in Aber for the week, and London feeling like an unfamiliar place without him. He feels claustrophobic in the overcrowded streets, and somehow agoraphobic in his way too big, empty loft. No, the Lake District is _definitely_ the right place to be, right now, as the cathartic moment after his late-night phone call with Kit from yesterday seems to have made him understand.

The house is great. Here, he always gets to completely unwind and momentarily forget about whatever the hell is going on in his mind that he can’t seem to manage to let go of. Coming to the countryside usually means switching his phone off—something that, incidentally, he now seems to be completely unable to do (and he completely blames Taron for that)—enjoying putting his feet up, chilling in a Jacuzzi until his skin is so wrinkly he looks five hundred years old, and alternating between saunas and steam rooms. Heck, Jeremy and Simon’s is much, _much_ better than any of the best spas Richard has ever been to. There’s incredible food and incredible drinks and incredible friends and incredible banter here, and it’s perfect.

In fact, he’s been feeling nothing but elated and loved ever since he put a foot back inside the Underbarrow manor, a couple of days ago. Plus, in the last few days he also seems to have acquired a tad more clarity as to what the fuck is going on in his head—or, to put it better, as to what to do about _who_ is buzzing around in his mind. This who, of course, has a name and a surname and a home address in West London, and Richard’s missing him very fucking much, despite the idyllic setting he’s now strolling in. Regardless of how good he feels here, immersed in nature and closer to peace than he’s ever been, his mind still seems to wander, and his heart still seems to crave new albeit _promising_ complications.

He has to force himself not to get lost in thought, though, because he’s just offered to handle a huge dog for a couple of hours, and he can’t really get distracted. Hector, who Jeremy and Simon and his pedigree papers claim is a full-grown adult, is actually still a puppy at heart—and Richard is absolutely _terrified_ of anything happening to him. Despite his size and his deep, terrifying bark, the only defence mechanism that this dog seems to possess is pinning you down and licking your face senseless. Definitely not an attack dog. Therefore, in need of protection.

Just as Hector is sauntering in front of Richard—checking behind him from time to time to make sure Richard is still there, and seemingly blissfully oblivious of the bad weather—Richard can’t hear Kasabian playing in his ears anymore and simultaneously feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He whistles at the dog to attract his attention, then, and proceeds to stop in his tracks. Hector looks back at him inquiringly, but obediently stops and sits on his heels, waiting for him. _Good boy, Hector_.

Richard taps once on his right AirPod and takes the call.

“Hello?”

“Richie Rich!” a bubbly female voice comes in from the end of the line. _Lily_.

“Hey, princess,” Richard says, a smile creeping up at the corners of his lips. “How are ye, darling?”

“Absolutely _grand_, love,” she says, sounding like she means every word. 

Richard can hear chattering on the end of the line—and, for some reason, the crashing of waves. “Where are you this time, ye absolute globe-trotter?”

“Sharm-El-Sheikh!” she informs him, ecstatic. “Took Matty away as a birthday present. He deserved a break—and I did too, frankly. We needed a change of scenery. Being home too long usually results in him channelling Prince Philip _way_ too much. He’s never really managed to shuck him off, it seems, and he’s been kind of a prick these days. Haven’t you, my love?” She _shouts_ the last four words. Richard hears shuffling and muffled laughter, as the phone sounds like it’s passing from hand to hand.

“How’s my favourite man doing?” Matt comes in, posh and chipper as usual. Richard hasn’t heard his voice in at least two months, and it’s _soothing_, for some reason.

“Doctor, Doctor, I’m _exhausted_,” Richard replies, groaning, playing the never-ending game he’s had going on with Matt for a good six years, now. “Can you prescribe me something?”

“As usual, Dickie,” Matt replies, chuckling, “not _that_ kind of doctor. Also, not me anymore, is it?”

“And my dear compatriot has been kicked out too, ‘asn’t ‘e?”

“He has indeed. I would have put in a good word with Steven for you—but he also lost the gig, didn’t ‘e? Chibnall’s officially stepped in, writing for Jodie. Sorry, mate.”

Ah. The _Doctor Who_ gig that Richard has wanted since he was a wee one, hiding behind the couch at the very scary bits where the—he now realises—_very embarrassingly fake-looking_ monsters used to pop out of nowhere and attack Tom Baker, who fought them off with the help of his trusty sonic screwdriver and his crafty companions. Tom Baker used to be Richard’s favourite, until Matt Smith stepped into the TARDIS. Richard is still mad that his agent didn’t manage to get him even a blasted cameo in one of his episodes. It would have been perfect—Steven Moffat was writing, Matt was constantly jumping around and being his own hectic self (which, Richard can report quite confidently, is only _partially_ an act) and, well, Jenna was Richard’s girlfriend. They would have had a wonderful time, indeed.

“Eh, it’s fine,” Richard replies. Thinks of something cheeky, to keep the _Who_ flame alive and burning for a little while longer. “Guess I’ve got the wrong Doctor here, ‘aven’t I? Hasn’t David worked with Chibnall on _Broadchurch_? Better give _him_ a call, then—he probably can hook us up.”

Matt makes a sound that expresses, amongst other feelings, _betrayal_ and _outrage_.

“I knew it,” he replies, sassy, “I knew that the fact that Tennant is Scottish will one day come back and bite me in the bum. I thought _I _was your favourite.”

Richard looks around, to check on the dog. Hector is rolling in the mud—and Jeremy’s _definitely_ going to want Richard’s balls on a silver platter, when he lets the mutt back into the house. The idea of the man’s reaction to dirty paw prints all over his marble kitchen tiles, coupled with Matt’s indignation and possessiveness, makes Richard chuckle in earnest.

“Oh, but you _are_, darling. Dinnae worry.”

“See, I really think it’s must be an accent thing. Every time I see you guys together, I’m lost after barely five minutes of hearing you talk to each other. Goddamned brogue. It’s sexy, though, not gonna lie.”

“That’s never been a problem with anyone else, though. I actually think it must be _you_, Matthew. You’re just way too posh for this world.”

“Oh, _sod it_, Madden, why don’t you?”

“No, no, I mean it! Might have something to do with having played the literal poshest man in Britain for three whole years?” Richard asks. Matt’s interpretation of the Prince Consort is, admittedly, extremely believable.

“_Seriously_, Dickie. Not my fault the role calls for me being a prick. Can’t really ‘elp it, can I?”

“Oh, but you’ve _always _been a bit of a prick, darling.”

“Seriously, fuck _right _off, Richard.”

“I love you, arsehole. How’s Egypt?”

“Hot. Like you. I love you too, by the way. You big old dick.”

“I believe that’s my _father_ you’re referring to, Matthew.”

Matt’s breath catches in his throat.

“Oh, God. Does Pat _still_ call you that?”

“I’m afraid she does.”

Matt breaks down laughing. He chuckles so much and so hard that he actually starts coughing, and when ten seconds of listening to the man wheezing in agony have passed, Richard feels obliged to ask whether he’s alright—because Matt distinctly sounds like he’s about to lose a fucking lung.

“Yes,” he gasps, coughing some more. “Yes, I’m alright. _Little Dick_.” He keeps on giggling, like the absolute loon he is.

“Would you believe me if I told you that she called me that in front of my _boyfriend_, two weeks ago?” Richard asks, rolling his eyes as if Matt could see his face.

“Oh. My. God,” he replies, shocked, still chortling a tad. “I absolutely would. Gosh, what a _fucking_ legend,” he muses. He then sounds like he’s moving the phone away from himself a little—but not far enough that Richard can’t hear him. “Lil, darling, please remind me to send Pat Madden a box of chocolates and a very good vintage Scotch. She deserves the fucking world.”

“I’m not your assistant, _darling_,” Lily comes back, sweet but firm. “Pop-up reminders on Google Calendar are something that have existed for a few years. I know you’re supposed to be, what, 907? But still… do keep up, love.”

God, these two are always a fucking riot.

“I miss you guys. Wish I was there with you.”

“Where _are_ you, Dickie? What are you up to?”

“Walking a humongous Great Dane in the pouring rain, somewhere in the Lake District. Not quite like the sunny shores of Egypt, is it?”

“Apropos, though,” Matt replies, appreciative. “How very Mr. Darcy of you, Madden. Dark and mysterious. Speaking of holidays—are you off, then? You done with the Elton film? Biding your time, waiting for the Bond gig to come knocking?”

“Not really hoping on that one anymore, love.”

“C’mon, Dickie. I’ve been saying it for _years_, ‘aven’t I? _Dinnae_ worry, it’s coming,” Matt reassures him, putting on the worst excuse for a Scottish accent Richard’s _ever _heard—even worse than Taron’s, if at all possible. He then continues, in his normal burr. “Might have heard a few rumours floating round—and they’re safe sources, too.”

“You absolutely have _not_, you bloody fibber.”

“I’m not, though. Would never lie to you, Dickie. Cross my hearts.”

“Never could resist that one, could you?”

“What can I say? I miss it—probably more than the whole world does. And I miss you too, by the way. And your bloody brilliant Cosmos.”

“Hit me up when you guys are in London. Driving back in three days,” Richard says. Not quite sure why, he feels the need to add, “Taron’s birthday’s this Saturday.”

“My days, Madden,” Matt says, sounding dreamy, all of a sudden. “You sure as hell are _smitten_.”

Richard sighs. He never could lie to Matt, not even back in the day. He was the one he first went to when Jenna dumped him. The man knows his love life and its multifaceted twists and turns like the back of his hand. It’s only natural he would pick up on how much love he’s harbouring in his chest, these days.

“Aye. He’s wonderful, Matty. I hope we can all get together soon, he’s buzzing to meet you. Might get starstruck, though—just so you know.”

“He sounds _adorable_. I’m thinking—next Thursday, you, Taron, Lil, and yours truly, and… That incredible Italian in Soho? What says you?”

Damn, Matt Smith knows his way to Richard’s heart.

“Yes, Doctor. Can’t bloody wait.”

“Bye for now, darling. Enjoy the mud. Say hi to Jeremy and Simon from us both.”

“Will do. Enjoy the sunshine, you bastards.”

“See you soon, Richie Rich! Love you so much!” Lily cries out, next to the phone but not quite into the mic. Richard still hears, though.

“Bye, princess. Love you too.”

** _Part IV – And nothing about this is holy, it’s just killing me, killing me slowly_ **

_Wednesday, November 7th_

It seems like every day Richard spends in Underbarrow revolves around drinking alcohol, in some form or another. He’s on holiday, after all, and Jeremy and Simon really seem to be taking the concept at face value. It’s usually bubbly or rosé at lunch, a decadent Baileys coffee in the afternoon, streams and streams of vintage red at dinner, and one or two or possibly more _wee drams _after they’re done with a long and _excruciating_ day spent between the at-home spa, the garden, and the frankly disgustingly comfortable couch in the living room.

This noon, it seems, Select Spritz is their poison of choice. Simon had the stuff in Venice once and he loved it so much that he immediately decided Aperol or Campari were _way _too humdrum, and made a point of replacing their stash of those with one of Select. Richard can’t blame him, really, because the stuff is fucking _transcendental_. Plus, Richard bets that Simon must have bribed the cook from _Bocca di Lupo_ to give him a couple of recipes to impress everyone at apéro, because the _cicchetti_ that they’re having now—burrata and sun-dried tomatoes bruschettas, Tuscan chicken-liver crostini, and bite-sized pieces of deep-fried buffalo mozzarella—are, also, _divine_.

While Simon is fussing over the roast pork shoulder he’s been nursing like it’s his firstborn for absolutely _hours_, Jeremy and Richard are sitting in the winter garden, sipping their drinks and talking about _Mr. Porter_. Jeremy has been telling him about the new collection—how he’d like for Gareth to get involved with styling the models for the shoot, and possibly even do a heavy feature on _The Jackal_—and would Richard be interested in a certain celebrity photographer (Gavin, it's always Gavin) taking a few snaps of him in the clothes Jeremy _really_ can’t imagine on any other model wearing as well as Richard, _darling_?

Richard looks suspicious, but ends up agreeing all the same. The Spritz really is agreeing with him, it seems—and he always loves to see Jeremy smile on his account.

“Oh, by the way—it’s for the underwear campaign. Thank you for just agreeing to strip it down for _Mr. P._, Dickie. The country salutes you,” Jeremy says, raising his glass and _smirking_, now. Oh, God, what has Richard gotten himself to?

He’s about to protest, to say he takes his promise back, to tell Jeremy where he can stuff his Egyptian cotton underwear and his Chinese mulberry silk dressing gowns—although they _do_ sound amazing, now he thinks about it—but he’s cut off right before he’s about to voice his thoughts. His phone, which is resting screen-side down on the table, suddenly starts buzzing.

And, oh, look! Schoolboy Richard is back in full force.

Why the damned thing is even _on _the table is a conundrum not even Hercule Poirot in his best days would have been able to solve. It’s become second nature to bring it with him everywhere he goes, to always have some sort of alert or feedback whenever anything happens inside it—texts, messages, mentions, you name it—and to check it at least every five minutes.

Oh, damn. Is this how normal people use phones? Is Richard finally starting to get it?

He’s definitely ignoring it, though. He’s not checking the tex… but, wait, why won’t it stop vibrating?

Richard eyes Jeremy for a second, who gestures at the phone with his hand. “Be my guest, Rich. Finding it fascinating that the blasted thing is on at all, to be honest. I’m used to you being isolated from the outside world, whenever you’re here,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, I know, I know, J,” Richard says, apologetically. He can’t really find an excuse for himself, so he gives none. “I… just…”

“Oh, don’t worry, love. Only teasing you. Glad you’re finally caught up with the rest of us and our unhealthy modern habits. Go ahead, take it.”

“Thanks. Won’t be a minute, I promise.”

“You better not be. Si is gonna have a fit if the pork gets cold,” Jeremy says, winking at him.

Richard picks his phone up, turns it over to take the call, and… _Fuck_. He thought it would be Taron.

It’s _not_ Taron.

Richard makes a weird, panicky noise as he gets up. He then starts strolling back into the house, long strides taking him quickly past the kitchen and Simon, who glances questioningly at him before shaking his head, smiling to himself, and going back to cutting his treasured roast. Richard gets as far as the hallway and, starting to effectively stress out about the absurd number of rings the person calling him is having to sit through, he decides to finally pick up the call.

“Hey, stranger,” he says, hoping not to sound as flustered as he already kind of feels.

“Hey yourself, Romeo,” Jamie says, the northern strum in his voice even more delicious than usual.

“Enjoying your head not itching anymore?” Richard asks, somehow managing to sound much smoother than he feels, at the moment.

“Immensely,” Jamie says, sighing. Richard’s mouth is suddenly very dry. “And are you enjoying your time away, Coleridge wannabe?”

Oh, God, Romantic poets? As if this man wasn’t perfect enough, already. How did that line go, again—_cornflakes and classics_?

“Always was more of a Wordsworth man, meself,” Richard replies—his mind’s eye projecting a picture of him and Jamie, kissing lazily and watching the dawn upon Westminster Bridge. In reality, he’s standing in front of a giant Picasso—Jesus, is that an original?—and, all of a sudden, he feels like the woman with the wonky eyes in the painting is judging him for being absolutely bloody ridiculous. If she is, she’s not wrong.

“Well, Dickie,” Jamie says, sounding impressed. “That was a test, and you passed with flying colours. Me too, by the way.”

“What a bloody relief. Thought you were a fan of the whole albatross business, for a second, there.”

“God, no. Give me misty mornings and daffodils every day of the week, though.”

Jamie really does need to stop fuelling the flame that is consuming Richard’s insides, thank you very much. Richard laughs nervously. Yup, great. _Super_ inconspicuous.

“Any particular reason for this call, or did ye really just miss my voice, darling Bernie?”

“Not that I didn’t, of course,” Jamie says, “but I’m actually on a bit of a mission, here.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Wanted to check with you whether you had anything in mind for Taron’s birthday. I know he said he doesn’t want a big bash—knowing him, I suspect he’s already organising the one for next year, actually—but I thought it’d be nice to celebrate him anyways?”

“Why, yes, of course,” Richard replies. The truth is he’s got nothing planned, yet—not even a present. One hazy idea floating around in his head is to take Taron out on the town and buy him everything that his heart desires. He’s good at that. Buying him stuff. Overcompensating. He holds a goddamned black belt in it, in fact. Elton would definitely be proud.

“Got nothing special in mind yet, no. Probably just letting him take the Centurion for a spin in Selfridge’s, really. Anything better on your side?”

“Oh, nothing as fancy as that, I’m afraid. Haven’t got HBO or BBC money, have I?” Jamie says, non-committal—but Richard still hears the smile in his voice. That wicked smile that just makes him want to drop to his knees in a heartbeat. “A fucking Centurion, Richard, are you kidding me? Who are you, the King of England?”

“Pretty sure the last one o’ them died around sixty-five years ago, darling. Haven’t been a king myself for years, either. I just… got it?”

“Oh, wait, no, I get it now,” Jamie says, sniggering. “It’s from the sugar daddies in the Lake District, innit? Of course. Makes _so_ much sense.”

“Prick,” Richard says, a mischievous smile creeping up on his face as he turns to look at the bit of the kitchen he can see from where he’s standing, and acknowledging Jeremy and Simon immersed in conversation and eyeing him discreetly.

“Sorry not sorry, Dickie—you’re a spoiled bastard.”

“Maybe,” Richard admits, tentatively. “Yes, yes, I really am,” he finally concedes, shaking his head and laughing, lightly.

“Anyways. As I was saying—nothing crazy in the slightest, but how does coming for a drink at mine in the evening sound? You get to take him out in the afternoon, and then you can flood my apartment with Tom Ford and Boss shopping bags. I got him some out-of-this-world Japanese gin, and I might also have some very posh Scotch on its way, too,” Jamie says. “Laphroaig, 28-year-old,” he finishes, very slowly enunciating every word. His voice sounds _husky_, all of a sudden.

“_Nothing crazy in the slightest_, she says, namedropping what is possibly the best whisky I’ll ever have in my _life_,” Richard says, as every drop of blood in his body rushes to pool in his nether regions. “Ye’re bloody barmy, Jamie Bell. And, by the way—_you_’re definitely the one who’s hiding a sugar daddy, love. Not me.”

“_Carpe diem_, Dickie. It’s our favourite man’s birthday, we can live a little. Splash the Paramount cash. All that good stuff.” Even the way he pronounces “Paramount”, in that stupidly sexy Teesside inflection, has Richard weak at the knees once again.

_What the fuck._

“Alright, yes,” Richard says, defeated—not that he’s even tried to put up a fight, really. “Yes, let’s do drinks at yours. Inviting the whole gang too, or…?” he asks, cautiously. He really hopes Jamie will say no. _Please, say no._

“Nah,” Jamie says, insouciantly—like he’s not answering all of Richard’s prayers. “Thought about it for like, what, half a second? But then I told meself that T might have had enough of Dexter for a couple of weeks, after all. Also, inviting him means inviting the whole of Marv, plus probably at least half of the staff at Pinewood—and, again, not the big three-o this year, is it? Moreover, I’m not sure whether we’d all fit in my place.”

“You mean your 7k square feet overlooking the Thames? Yeah, no, ye’re right, J. Tad too small and _way_ too shabby for a birthday party.”

“Oh, sod off, Madden. You’ve said before how much you wanted to _come_, haven’t ya?” Jamie asks, his voice even lower now. Richard’s every muscle freezes, at that. Yeah, alright, maybe he’s reading way too much into this, but what is up with Jamie putting a ridiculously obvious inflection on the word “come”?

“And I still very much do want to _come_,” Richard replies, mimicking the stress on the ambiguous word, and witnessing his own voice dropping an octave, without his explicit consent.

“Well, lovely, then. It’s a date.” Ugh, that word again. “And, if you behave, I might even show you ‘round.”

Richard has never wanted to _behave_ more in his life. He tentatively grazes a hand on his crotch and… Yep, just what he thought. That’s definitely a semi, right there.

“I will behave, promise.” _I will be so good for you, Jamie_.

“Good lad. Shall we say, what, seven, then?”

“Seven it is. Thank you for… organising this, J,” Richard says, fighting against his voice breaking.

“It will be a pleasure to have you. _Both_,” Jamie says—impossibly low, impossibly mellow, impossibly lustful.

“Pleasure will be all ours, I’m sure. Have a good one, J.”

“You too, Dickie. See you _very_ soon.”

Richard taps on the red button to end the call, and he clutches his phone a tad too tightly. _Fuck_. How is he supposed to sit through lunch and keep a steady stream of clever conversation going when _this_ just happened, and everything he wants to do right now is barricade himself in the huge guest bedroom he’s been occupying for the past couple of days, and just _get it done_?

“Dickie, darling?” Simon calls out. “Get your lovesick Scottish arse in here before the meat gets cold—or you’re _definitely_ doing all the washing up,” he threatens, in a sing-song voice.

Right. Time for Richard to re-centre himself. He needs to calm the _fuck_ down. Breathe in, breathe out. _Inhala, exhala._ Like Gina always says on _Jane the Virgin_. He can do this.

He starts strolling back into the kitchen, and he manages to paint a last-minute smug smile on his face.

“Alreyt, alreyt, I’m ‘ere,” he says, as he not-so-surreptitiously tries and fails to pocket his phone. He thinks he’s sliding inside the back pocket of his jeans, when he’s just effectively sliding it _against_ his jeans, missing the pocket completely—which results into the stupid thing falling and hitting the hard kitchen tiles.

_Wow, Richard. That was great._

Richard is startled for half a second, and then he’s mortified. Jeremy and Simon are eyeing each other, and noticing that simple thing is enough to take him way back to his teenage years. It’s a look that his parents use to exchange a lot, whenever Richard was acting extra clumsy—tripping over his feet when lost in thought, dropping stuff here and there when he really wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing because his mind was elsewhere, you name it, really. It’s a look that simply says, _oh, darling, our boy is in love_. 

"Wha'?" he still asks, faking obliviousness, as he bends down to pick the damned thing up. Thank fuck Taron got him that military-grade sturdy cover, a couple of months back.

"Nothing, dear," Jeremy says, grabbing two plates containing impeccably served portions of pork roast, new potatoes, green beans, and mushy peas. "Just the universe giving you signs you need to be true to yourself and turn your _bloody_ phone off. C'mon. _Starving_."

Richard smiles at him as he picks up his own plate, and follows him back into the winter garden.

"So," Simon starts, halfway through the meal, cutting a piece of meat and distinctly looking very fucking proud of himself, as he watches the juices flow and probably feels like a painter in front of his latest masterpiece. "What was all that about, earlier?"

Richard, whose mind has been elsewhere for the whole fifteen minutes they've spent at the table so far, does his best not to choke on a mouthful of peas and potatoes. _Really?_ Does Simon really want to have this conversation?

“Uhm…” Richard starts, hesitant, grabbing the half-empty glass in front of him and gulping down the remaining water it contains. “Nothing major, really. Just making plans for Taron’s birthday.”

“Who has the honour of spending time with the birthday prince, then?” Jeremy asks, allusively. “You or…?”

_Jamie, Jamie, Jamie_, is the chant in Richard’s head, at the moment.

“Both, actually. I’m taking him out in the afternoon, and we’re having drinks at Jamie’s in the evening,” Richard says, hoping to God that his voice hasn’t really trembled the way he thinks it just has, speaking Jamie’s name out loud.

“Ooh,” Simon says, appreciatively, “Well, then. Two already formed couples, alcohol, and a desperately smitten Richard Madden lusting over the man he’s _not_ in a relationship with. What could happen, I wonder…”

A slideshow of incredibly high-definition pictures starts flooding Richard’s mind, at that. He can see a few drinks too many, then himself kissing Taron, then Taron kissing Jamie, then himself ghosting his fingers over Jamie’s arm, the way Jamie did that night at the pub—and then his self-control goes tits up and Jamie is pinning him down on his bed and snogging him senseless, which goes _straight_ to his cock, irreparably corrupting his ability to hold himself steady and having a normal conversation.

Doing his best to compose himself, he tries a brash comeback to Simon’s rhetorical question.

“Oh, sod it, Si,” he says, smiling weakly. “Not like a threesome is on the cards, anyways, is it?”

_What_ did he just say? Whatever that was, he now feels even less sure of himself, and possibly even more aroused.

“A _threesome_, Dickie? Good gracious, your mind _is_ wandering, darling. I just meant you could possibly try your luck with the one man and have Taron watch you both at it, but your idea sounds _grand_, too,” Simon replies, smirking and raising an eyebrow at Richard.

_Oh, good God._

_Twenty minutes later_

Richard closes the door behind him and sighs, loudly, in relief. There’s light in the bedroom, coming from the windows and the huge floor-to-ceiling glass doors that lead to the balcony, and it hurts his eyes. His head is heavy with thoughts and confusion and yearning and uncontrollable lust, and it’s all he can do to rest it against the door as he leans on it, witnessing his hands moving on their own accord to undo his belt and unzip his fly and…

_Fuck_. He’s so hard already. A phone call, some banter, and the promise to get together on Saturday night for a seemingly innocent night of drinks and some more banter—that’s all it took to get him into this state?

He plunges a hand inside his jeans to palm himself over his underwear, and he can feel a damp spot beneath his fingers—and, goddamnit, he doesn’t know whether he’s _ever_ been so aroused in his life. At the realisation, hot blood suddenly pools _everywhere_ around his body, and he feels like he could melt on the spot.

He starts moving his hand the way he likes best—still fully clothed, still lying against the door, still feeling like his head is full of lead—and he finds himself unable to stop an obscenely loud moan from escaping his parted lips.

Oh, sweet Jesus. His brain might not be functioning at full capacity—he’d say he’s approximately at ten percent at the moment, due to the complete override of control his cock and the mental image of a very naked and very dominating and very _hard_ Jamie Bell are operating—but he still knows he’d be a fool to make himself heard any more than this. Jeremy and Simon would give him literal hell for years on end. Plus, the king-size guest bed looks like an incredible scenario for a very self-indulgent and very necessary wank, so Richard decides that this is definitely what’s happening. Immediately, thank you very much.

When he finally manages to pull his jumper and his T-shirt over his head in one go—not without difficulty, because the light cotton desperately wants to cling to his sweat-drenched skin—he finally is able to draw a proper breath. He throws the rest of his clothes on the ground, scattering them over the luxurious cream-white carpet, and he all but collapses on the silk sheets that cover his bed. His head finds the multitude of decorative cushions that are rested against the headboard, and he sinks down amongst them, sighing loudly again as his right hand finds his erection over the thin cotton of his boxers.

As soon as he’s settled, he presses the _play_ button on the tape recorder in his head, and Jamie’s voice is back talking softly to him about Taron and whisky and romantic poets—and that alone is enough to send a frantic rush of blood down to his groin. He feels his cock hardening a tad more under his fingers, and he touches the wet spot on his boxers that he discovered around a minute ago, and he feels dirty and _desperate_, and he finds he can’t stifle the sly moan that wants to escape his lips.

_Fuck_, he’s so wet, and he wants Jamie so _bad_.

He presses his heels on the mattress in order to lift his bottom and thighs from the bed, just enough to be able to yank his boxers off, finally setting his cock free, and wrapping his fingers _properly_ around himself, at last. He’s just had to sit through a whole meal with his favourite people in the world, and _this_ is what he’s been thinking of doing the whole goddamned time. He definitely feels like a bad friend, for not paying any kind of attention whatsoever to the conversation—but sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, eh?

Incidentally, _what_ a man’s gotta do right this instant is pull on his foreskin to uncover his swollen, wet tip, and drag a thumb over it to collect some of the moisture, and feel some more precum leak over his finger as he does that—and Jamie’s words in Richard's head are less mundane and more context-specific, now, because he can distinctly imagine the man whispering that he’s doing so good, and that he’s _such a good boy, Richard, you’re so good, love_, and the memory of Jamie telling him to _behave_ is so vivid and so destructive, and he feels like Jamie is just there, lying next to him, and for one second he’s so turned on just by the _thought _of him that he has the absurd inkling that he could possibly climax like that—barely having touched himself at all.

But Jamie’s voice and lips and hands and body are very much _not_ on the bed next to Richard, not really, and he’s too starved for actual physical stimulation to let his brain do all the dirty work, so he does what he knows always gets him off—he starts pumping on his cock with a purpose, and he brings his left hand from where it’s lying by the side of his body up to his stomach, dragging his fingers and tracing the faint outline of his abs and obliques, then up still, nails scratching lightly at the short hairs on his chest, and then up again, finally settling around his throat.

His grip is firm and strong with both hands. His right, he’s urgently fucking into—letting his fist linger over the head for a few seconds more every time, to effectively spread precum everywhere and slick his whole shaft up—and his left is squeezing his throat. He feels his Adam’s apple contract and his carotid pulsate and the beat of his heart getting heightened and frantic, and he vividly imagines Jamie’s fingers holding him still and pushing him into the mattress and cutting off his oxygen. It’s _wonderful_, and he wants _more_, and he wants _Jamie_ more than anything in the world, and it’s so _hard_ to have to do everything alone, sometimes, but he’ll just have to make do, for now, he guesses.

_Just for a few days more, anyway._

Back to the thought of Saturday night, and Richard’s body is on fire once again. Sure, his clothes are now gone and he’s naked as the day he was born, but in his defence he’s pulling one off to the thought of Jamie choking him and praising him while he’s at it, and some voice in his head is doing its best to convince him that this is something that could actually happen in real life, and possibly only in a few days’ time—so he thinks he’s justified for breaking a sweat.

His legs are spread out, and he’s imagining Jamie kneeling between them and pinning him down on the mattress, one hand around Richard’s throat, the other caressing his balls and perineum—as Richard’s now tentatively doing in real life, with his right hand, as his left still chokes him with purpose—and tentatively grazing further down, and… Richard needs to drop everything right this instant, because he needs lube, and he needs it _now_.

He pushes himself towards the side of the bed, then, and he decides to try his luck by opening the bedside table drawer in search of some hidden treasure—which miraculously materialises itself in the form of a minimal, transparent bottle, with _überlube_ written on its front in serif font, and a very convenient pump for easy dosing—and thank _fuck_ Richard talks about his sex life to Jeremy and Simon openly enough for them to think it appropriate to put such a thing there for him, really. He carefully coats his right hand in it, emphasis on his index and middle finger, and he rests the bottle next to him on the bed, for easy access, in case he needs more.

His slicked-up digits move down his body once again, teasing at his entrance in no time, and his breath catches in his throat. He presses in with his middle finger, and he’s cautious and sheepish with it—almost as if he’s never done this before, almost as if he’s never had three or four fingers up in there, and occasionally some toys, and of course the odd actual cock—and it’s been so goddamned long since he’s done this, that it actually kind of _does_ feel like it’s never happened before. He’s really surprised by how _much_ he wants to be breached, opened up, and thoroughly fucked into oblivion.

He’s not been this needy with Taron, yet—although he knows the day will come when he will wake up one morning and start begging to come on his cock—but imagining Jamie doing it feels incredibly natural and right and oh, _God_, how Richard wants to feel those long, beautiful fingers penetrating him and making him curl his toes in delight, and can it happen in real life, and can it happen right now, please?

One finger turns into two, and Richard officially starts moaning and whining out loud, and his cock throbs at each back-and-forth stroke of his fingers against his walls, and then he finally finds his weak spot and, well, that’s when he loses it entirely.

_Please, Jamie, fuck me_, he’s breathlessly whispering, not sure if out loud or just in his head, and Jamie is kissing him roughly and slicking up his cock—his gorgeous, swollen, veiny, and _ridiculously big_ cock—and he’s not wearing a condom, and Richard feels _everything_ as Jamie presses himself inside, and gets all the way down in one single, smooth stroke of his hips. Richard is impossibly turned on, and he feels surprisingly pliant, despite being kind of rusty when it comes to bottoming—but he’s finding it so damn easy to add a third finger, then a fourth, to the ones that already fucking his hole, and getting them as deep as he can.

The stretch is so perfect and so _delicious_ that the usual initial discomfort is effectively drowned in a sea of _please, harder_ coming from Richard’s mouth, and of _yes, Richard, you’re so good for me, love_, coming from Jamie’s voice inside Richard’s head. Incidentally, that’s when Richard needs his left hand back around his throat—because he’s craving domination more than he’s ever done in his life, and because he needs to stop himself from being so goddamned loud, and also because he just really, _really_ fucking enjoys being choked and losing control, especially while he’s imagining that his needs are being fulfilled by the object of his more forbidden dreams and his wonderful, impeccable, cock, relentlessly pushing in and out of Richard and filling him up completely.

He turns his head to one side, bites down on a pillow, and he cries into it as he curls his fingers up and against his prostate—still choking himself as best as he can, considering how much he’s writhing under his own touch and how the usual firmness and strength in his muscles seem to have gone up in flames—the same flames that are currently lighting up the pit of his stomach and making his orgasm come up and up throughout the rest of his body, soaring like a beautiful phoenix. He barely has the time to get his left hand around his painfully neglected cock before the fire inside him is finally consuming his insides, and he’s coming harder than he’s ever come before—pushing his pelvis down to get his fingers even deeper inside him, squeezing his hand around his cock to milk every drop of come he can get—and he feels like he’s dying and immediately born again from the ashes of his pleasure.

As he comes down—spent, spread out, weak and vulnerable—his brain is still tingling with the aftermath of his climax, and his stomach, chest and neck are wet and sticky with come. When Richard opens his eyes, he looks at his fingers, which are still slick from the lube and glistening in the bright light of the early afternoon, and his imagination feeds him an impossibly vivid sight of Jamie’s cock, which he most definitely would be partial to suck at any given time of the day or night, but which looks even more enticing after it’s just given him the best orgasm of his life—so, naturally, Richard’s bathes in the filth that is bringing his fingers up to his mouth and sucking on them like his life depends on it, and he does this until he can hear Jamie’s moans become louder in his head, and imagines his hips stuttering, before Jamie pulls on Richard’s hair and comes inside his mouth, and Richard swallows it all, eagerly, moaning around his mouthful, and saying _thank you_ afterwards, too.

On autopilot, Richard somehow manages to wobble towards the ensuite and inside his shower. There, he can’t really decide whether a cold or a boiling stream of water is a better idea, at the moment, so he alternates between the two, generously lathering his body in Molton Brown shower gel to wash away the evidence of his self-indulgence, and daydreaming about Jamie and submission and the few, short days that separate him from seeing the man again—and from his every dream possibly coming true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hello. Told you it was a long one, didn’t I? Anyways, if you made it through all that, thank you, and welcome to another episode of _Rambling in the End Notes_, with your host, C.
> 
> Titles are from Arctic Monkeys (who’d have thought, eh?), Arctic Monkeys again (that line about knowing nothing was _way_ too perfect not to give it an actual Jon Snow-themed scenario), Chameleon Circuit (who, obviously, are a _Doctor Who_ tribute band, because I’m a giant goofball and still in love with the Eleventh Doctor), and James Blunt—because, again, his last album just screams Jamie/Richard to me.
> 
> And here is some more context for you peeps.
> 
> First of all, Jeremy and Simon’s Lake District [mansion](https://www.instagram.com/p/B3wwhfbhgJZ/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) is definitely a thing that really exists. Well, it wasn’t when the story _actually_ takes place, but I took a bit of a (literally) poetic license, because I just fucking love English Romantics and the whole goddamned perfect [aesthetic](https://www.instagram.com/p/B4Zxnt5BMBk/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) of the Lake District. By the way, Richard’s view from the window of his guest room? [Here it is.](https://www.instagram.com/p/B4rXndOhdWN/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)
> 
> Onto fanservice #1, and the Kit cameo. I had to, people. That Dolan film is about Richard Madden, and no-one can ever convince me otherwise. I don’t fucking care about the bad reviews—I loved every second of it. So much so that I actually watched it a second time just to take proper notes for Part II of this chapter. Dedication right here, people.
> 
> Because I really like you all, please have a [half-naked Kit Harington smoking a joint in a bathtub](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/TX_fzyD_88I/maxresdefault.jpg). You're welcome.
> 
> Oh, also, the bit where Richard calls Kit “Christopher” comes from this and other instances when baby boy told [this story](https://www.floor8.com/posts/the-hilarious-way-kit-harington-learned-his-real-name-at-age-11-01d7026sykwm), which I still find hilarious to this day. Kit is a soft boi, and Richard loves him a lot. I had to.
> 
> Fanservice #2 are Lily James and my favourite chaotic man, Matt Smith. The whole double-trouble dynamic back in 2014/2015, when Richard was dating Jenna Coleman and there was actually a whole couple-swapping thing going on onscreen (the Doctor and Clara vs Prince Kit and Cinderella + Romeo and Juliet immediately after), was incredible. I’m still *kind of* sad that Richard and Jenna split up before they had the chance to procreate, because those children would have been _gorgeous_.
> 
> Also, re: Dickie making incredible Cosmos and Matty being the first supporter of the Bond gig for him, please refer to this [video](https://youtu.be/YrQHTHFJld8) of Richard’s 2013 SDCC panel, where he’s looking extremely young and adorable and curly, and Matt and Jenna burst in around the 40-minute mark to cause mayhem. One of my favourite things to ever exist on the Internet, possibly ever—since, in case you hadn’t notice, I am the biggest _Who_ (and _Thrones_, too, what up Kit) nerd ever. Sorry not sorry, I guess.
> 
> Last but not least, yes there was porn. And yes, Sub!Richard is definitely a thing, when it comes to this universe and Jamie. Don’t thank me, for this, thank my gorgeous muse [supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof), who is as partial to Jamie wrecking our favourite Scot as I am myself, and who was the most incredible hypewoman throughout me writing this thing—which, by the way, happened extremely quickly.
> 
> I can also happily report that, after around 100k words of this whole shebang, I finally seem to have turned [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) onto Jamie Bell. Hallelujah. Also, I swear to God that the pretentious-ass phoenix metaphor I somehow came up with in the process is not there on purpose, but I sure as hell am glad it is there, as an homage to my lovely beta reader, whom I’ve completely wrecked with this last bit. Again, I’m not really sorry, and again, I love you.
> 
> I think it’s all for this week, my lovelies. See you back here next Tuesday, hopefully, for a teeny tiny time jump to the end of the week before Taron’s birthday, which is getting us and closer and closer to… _things_ actually happening. Brace yourselves for some more Jamie being a confused and horned-up idiot.
> 
> Love you all,
> 
> C x


	14. 14. Jamie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely peeps. Happy Tuesday.
> 
> I've just had what could be possibly labelled as one of the absolute shittiest times of my life, in the past few days, which has resulted into me booking a last-minute flight to London town to get the fuck away from my responsibilities, and getting tickets to go see Babey himself be clever and talk about his latest flick—dunno if you’ve seen it? Heard it’s proper fab. Gotta catch that, one day, when it’s on telly. (Alright, I’ll stop that, shall I.)
> 
> Me being in London in turn not only means I am currently writing these notes from here, where this story is set, but also that I’m actually phisically back in the place where everything started. Even more specifically, because life is very fucking weird, sometimes, I seem to have found myself in an apartment with a view on Canary fucking Wharf itself—and on Jamie’s week, no less—and if this is not cosmic tethering, I don’t know what is, really.
> 
> Anywhoo. Enough rambling. I’m way too tired for rambling, today, so for once you’ll be spared the interminable blabbing in the notes, I guess. Lucky you, eh?
> 
> As usual, thanks to [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) for a great beta, for encouraging me to make the conversation you’re about to read explicit, rather than let it happen offscreen, and for encouraging me through the process as usual. I appreciate you a lot, darlin’. I always say it, but I really, really mean it.
> 
> Right. Onto our darling Bernie, then.
> 
> Happy reading, see you later.

** _Part I - There are things that I just cannot explain to you, and those that I hope I don’t ever have to_ **

_Friday, November 9th, evening_

Taron is back from Wales, and it feels like Jamie is back from the dead.

Jamie almost _hates_ how much he’s missed seeing the man with the sunshine aura that has lit up every second of his days for the last few months—from dull costume fittings to drives to the nearest Costa for chai tea latte, from make-up touch-ups to stolen kisses beneath doorframes when no-one was around, from glances across a crowded room to endless nights spent listening to the beautiful sounds that escape his lips when Jamie makes love to him.

Now, Taron is finally sitting next to Jamie in the Islington pub that has become their regular for a pint since they went to see _Machinal_ at the Almeida back in June, back when they were just exploring the chemistry, back when they got together at times just because Dexter and Matthew asked them to. Jamie had been delighted to learn that Taron is as much of a sucker for obscure plays as he’s always been—and that is only another piece of the child’s play that had been falling in love with him, really. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and acid wash jeans and a ridiculous straw hat, and he’s smiling, and he’s _there_, and Jamie is finding it very difficult to fight the urge to just get it over with and pull him in for a kiss.

He is talking _a lot_. Going on about his Mam and stepdad and little sisters and the _bois am byth_ and the beach in Aber and the great seafood, and Jamie can swear he’s witnessing Taron slip in and out of Wales in his mind—pretty sure the man has actually called him _cariad_ a couple times already, in fact—and he is quite simply _living _for all of this.

“Sounds like you had a lovely time back home, pet. I’m glad,” Jamie says, taking a sip of his lager to punctuate himself. “You’ve, like, worked so _bloody_ hard. You definitely deserved a break.”

“You’re right about that one, J. Missed _you_ like crazy, though,” Taron murmurs, lips on the edge of his glass, addressing him the quickest wink in the history of the world and a small, cute pout. Taron’s hand travels on the wooden bench they’re both sat on, and it’s immediately very soft and warm in Jamie’s, fingers entangling, secret, filled with anticipation.

“Oh, you know I’ve missed you too, sunshine boy,” Jamie retorts, blushing slightly, a wide smile creeping up his face while he turns to face Taron. “That pic of you in the blue jumper kind of killed me, by the way. Just so you know.”

Taron chuckles at that, and he winks at Jamie. “Richard told me I could keep that one, you know. Maybe I can let you have a go…” he says, alluringly, his cheeks flushing a light shade of pink. Then, he looks lost in thought for a moment, so Jamie allows himself to process what Taron just said.

Richard.

The blue jumper was _Richard_’s.

Have a go. With the blue jumper.

Have a go. With Richard.

Wait, what? What was that last one?

And why on _earth_ did Jamie decide to sip on his beer just as he’s picturing having sex with Taron while simultaneously smelling Richard’s scent on him, the one he’ll inevitably inhale from the stolen piece of knitwear? Because the golden liquid is now _definitely_ going down the wrong pipe, that’s for fucking sure.

Jamie starts coughing desperately, and Taron is broken from his reverie—he immediately starts patting Jamie on the back and cooing, _you’re alright, love, you’re fine, good man_, and another string of encouraging words, until Jamie starts breathing normally again. His eyes are prickling, and he feels even more ridiculous than he did during the actual extremely loud and obnoxious coughing fit he’s just put himself, Taron, and at least ten other people around them through.

“Hey, hey, darlin’,” Taron says, his hand still rested on Jamie’s shoulder and looking at him with a mixture of concern and amusement painted on his face. “You alright?”

“Uh…” Jamie coughs again, and wipes his right eye—the treacherous bastard that just let one single tear escape and slowly roll down his cheek—as he tries to sound normal again. “Yes, I’m alright, sorry, pet.”

“Sorry? You’re the one who’s dying ‘ere, darling,” Taron replies, running a thumb around Jamie’s slightly moist cheekbone, affectionately. This touch and this kind of attentions alone are so sweet and so incredible and so _normal_, and Jamie’s heart fills with love and joy for one second—just before he’s brought back to reality by Taron’s insistent gaze, and him biting his lower lip, and the inevitable fresh memory of a certain pic in a certain jumper, and a certain pair of impossibly blue eyes, and—oh great, back to thinking about Richard, isn’t he, and isn’t this just _canny_, really, not like it were the most forbidden person to lust after, at the moment, right?

_For fuck’s sake, James, get a fucking grip._

“Darling?” Taron calls him again, now sounding a bit concerned.

His big green eyes proceed to scrutinise Jamie intently. He bats his lashes. He’s gorgeous. His hand is back on Jamie’s on the bench, and their fingers click together again. Natural. Lovely.

Taron is everything Jamie’s ever wanted and way, _way _more.

Why can’t he be _enough_? Why is he thinking so goddamned much about…

“You seem… preoccupied. Something on your mind, love?” Taron doubles down, squeezing Jamie’s hand a tad tighter still.

Ah, well, _shit_. Jamie can never hide anything from the man, can he? This is _really_ not a conversation he wants to have, because saying the words out loud will make it true and inevitable, and fuck knows how absolutely terrifying that is.

On the other hand, he realises he _has to_. A friendship—heck, a fucking _relationship_—is nothing without open communication, is it? Even if it’s, well, a _dangerous territory_ to venture into?

Alright, then. Yes. Good idea. He’s telling Taron _everything_.

“Oh, it’s _nothing_, pet,” Jamie still says, because he’s a complete dweeb, as well as hard-headed enough to make himself think he can actually wiggle his way out of this.

“Definitely _something_, though, innit?” Taron insists, not letting go. He’s a stubborn one.

_Damn_.

“It’s…” Jamie starts, as he witnesses his voice dropping a few octaves when uttering the monosyllable, and the rest of his statement dying in his mouth. Oh, come _on_.

“Good god, James, what on earth is with you today? Who are you, and what have you done with my blunt, well-spoken boyfriend?” Taron muses, sounding genuinely surprised and, by now, _mischievously_ curious.

“…Richard.” Jamie completes his sentence in a tone so feeble, he for a second finds himself wondering whether Taron even heard him.

Taron’s face lights up. Yeah, alright, he definitely did catch that.

“Richard, love?” he asks, musingly.

“Richard,” Jamie repeats, feeling simultaneously just a teeny bit surer of himself. Not like the name doesn’t burn his tongue. It still does.

“What _about_ Richard?”

“’S stupid.”

“Never _ever_. Spit it out, love.”

Jamie sighs, defeated.

“Eh, here goes nothing,” he says, shrugging.

“Oh, gosh, this is a whole thing, isn’t it? My,” Taron says, grabbing his pint and taking a generous sip. “Looking forward to it. Damn, I wish I had popcorn.”

“Alright, alright, dick’ead,” Jamie says, trying to sound careless when in reality he’s effectively hearing his heart beating in his ears so loudly that it’s now drowning out every sound around him. “Let me speak, won’t ya?”

Taron gives him an amused, apologetic look, then presses his lips together and mimics closing turning a key on one corner of his lips and then throwing it away.

Jamie draws a deep breath, and finally plunges into the dangerous unknown.

“There’s been a few… I don’t even know what to call them. Like, fleeting moments? Or at least _at first_ they were fleeting. Glances across the room on set, when I was hugging you, when Lizzie was fussing over me, when Julian was checking that my shirt was on just right—you know, stuff like that. I thought nothing of it, at the beginning of it all. You’re my everything, and Richard, well, he was just Scottish Romeo doing his thing, right?”

“Scottish Romeo,” Taron says, appreciatively, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, indeed, that is Richard Madden, right there.”

“However,” Jamie continues, turning to stare and pick at a chip of wood that is sticking out from the table to avoid Taron’s now piercing gaze, “we ended up alone at a pub a couple of weeks back.”

“Just the two of you?” Taron interrupts him. “Yes, honey, I remember. He texted. You both did, actually. _Confused_, I think he said he was.”

Jamie is momentarily startled. He thought he was maybe coming on too strong, but he never really imagined… Admittedly, that cigarette break did look suspiciously like Richard wanted to escape from something. From _someone_.

“We had a couple, and I saw him like I’d never seen him before. He was laid back, laughing a lot, telling me childhood stories, he was just a lot of fun and it felt so _natural_ to reach out a hand and touch him. So I did it. And there was a _moment_, T, I swear to you. A moment when I saw something in his eyes.”

“I know exactly what you mean. There’s a blood-red fire burning in that blue, sometimes, isn’t there?”

God, why does this man have such a way with words? Jamie’s eyes find Taron’s again, and the love of his life is smiling sweetly at him.

“That’s exactly what it was,” Jamie says, taking both of Taron’s hands in his. “Flames. And darkness. And so, so much more, actually. I definitely… _felt_ something, there, sunshine.”

“Something. Something like, what? _Tethering_?”

“You mock me for always using that word, I know, but I genuinely do believe everything happens for a reason. And I definitely think we were meant to be alone, that night.”

“Wow, this all sounds so very… Intense. I can actually _feel_ the tension from your words alone,” Taron says, sounding incredibly invested in the story of the two men he’s in love with possibly falling for each other. “Tell me more, tell me more?” he adds—melody and all.

“Alright, Rizzo, please hold,” Jamie says, grinning nervously as he grabs his pint once again and he takes a generous swig of it. “I _lingered_. On his arm. I couldn’t get enough of touching him. It was just a few square inches, but they were enough to get me completely bloody hooked.”

It feels good for it to be out. His burning desire for Richard, the thing that has been consuming his insides for weeks on end. Taron knows about it, now. It’s scary as hell, but at least it’s not a secret anymore.

“I mean,” Taron says, knowingly, and barely batting an eyelash, “I know _exactly_ what you’re talking about. It’s damn hard to be out in public with him—I can’t keep my hands to myself ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“Precisely that. God, Taron. You really do get me, don’t you?”

“I’m getting _something_, darling. Kindly confirm what I’m thinking—give it to me straight. What’s happening between you and Richard, exactly?”

Jamie draws in a deep breath, his heart still pounding relentlessly, and he says the thing.

“I think I’m falling for him, Taron.”

“Oh,” Taron says, bringing a hand to his mouth and biting softly on his thumb. “You really are serious, aren’t you? And this is not just about sex, is it?”

“I sometimes wish it was. Be less complicated that way, wunnit? But then of course it’s not. It’s—it’s just… There’s a connection. And it goes very deep. We have a shared past, you know. He told me all about it, that night—and afterwards, too, actually. We text a lot. Apparently, that’s happening.”

“Oh, darling, I _know_,” Taron says, the permanent grin on his lips turning naughty all of a sudden. “I never go through his phone, but the alerts are too many and _way _too frequent to ignore.” He emphasises his statement by taking a swig off his own pint. “Do go on, love.”

“He just, like, struggled so damn hard. Exactly like me. And I think that might be one of those things you end up bonding over, whether you like it or not. And he’s… God, Taron. His mind is even more beautiful than his face. Didn’t think that would be possible, yet here I am.”

“Welcome to the club, Jamie Bell,” Taron says, squeezing his hand.

“I want him, Taron. I want him so bad. I want _all _of him.”

There. It’s out. The whole thing.

When he’s done, Jamie finds himself surreptitiously glancing at the old-school cuckoo clock on the wall in front of the table they’re sat at. He reads the time, and, wow was that really just _ten minutes_ of talking?—because it felt like a full forty-eight hours, actually.

He feels lighter, but his mouth is dry. His pint of… fucking _Tennent’s_—because of course that’s what Taron ordered them—that Jamie kept using as an excuse to pace himself, has been empty for a while.

“You don’t hate me, do you?” Jamie suddenly feels like he should ask Taron, who is now just looking at him, a bemused smile on his face. He has been droning on Taron’s _boyfriend_ for a while, after all. Never hurts to check, does it?

“Oh, James, you silly, foolish man. Why in the _world_ would you think I could hate you for this?” he says, sounding utterly incredulous. Jamie can’t help but notice that there seems to be a glimpse of _something_ in his eyes. Like the wheels in his brain are turning at unimaginable speed, behind them.

“Wait,” Taron says, again, seemingly struck by realisation. “You have _absolutely_ no idea, do ya?”

“About what?” Jamie asks, absolutely and completely fucking oblivious.

“God, Jamie,” he says, in that irresistibly camp tone of his that sometimes pops up unannounced, as he shifts closer to Jamie on the bench. He then looks left and right to check whether they perhaps might be observed by prying eyes, obviously concludes on the negative, and proceeds to unceremoniously put a hand on Jamie’s thigh, sliding it far up and far in enough for Jamie’s breath to catch in his throat. “_Honestly_.”

“About… hmmm,” Jamie tries and miserably fails again, because Taron’s hand is moving a little further up towards his groin, and his whole body is inching closer still, and his lips are dangerously closer to Jamie’s earlobe, and hot breath is grazing his skin, and…

“Jamie. You. And. Richard. Fuck, I know tomorrow’s my birthday, but I wasn’t expecting _this_ big of a gift,” he says, seductively. He now has Jamie’s abductor in a steady, wanton grip, and his voice is low and more accented than usual, and he’s so close, and he smells so _good_, and the _things _he’s saying… Could they mean what Jamie thinks they mean?

“Let’s get out of ‘ere,” Taron practically growls, not letting Jamie get a word in. “There’s something I really want to show you,” he declares. Not quite satisfied yet, he decides to add, “Something that will demonstrate that Richard, too, has you on his mind pretty much all the fucking time.”

Oh, _fuck_.

** _Part II – And he could catapult you back to your daddy, or into any hissing misery_ **

_Half an hour later_

When Taron’s lips are on Jamie’s after an _interminable_ cab ride back to Canary Wharf, it’s not like it usually is. It’s still hungry, mind, still demanding—but there’s a tender, playful element to it that Jamie very rarely feels coming up after days spent apart, when everything they want to do is fall into each other’s arms as quickly as humanly possible. Taron’s kisses are slow and exploring, today, and he’s swirling their bodies round and round quite a bit, like they’re slow dancing, and it’s very, _very_ nice, actually. They’re effectively waltzing through the apartment, from the entrance to the hallway to the living room, until Jamie feels the soft leather of his couch against the back of his legs and joyfully plops down onto it. Taron practically falls on top of him, and they laugh, then, like a couple of fools, and he’s beautiful—_so beautiful_, it’s actually bordering on ridiculous.

Jamie makes sure to discard the silly straw hat with a flick of his wrist, like a frisbee, which earns him a fake-upset look from Taron, which is quickly turned upside down by bringing their foreheads together and beaming into the intense eye contact and, God, can Jamie _please_ freeze this moment in time, because he’s not sure he wants anything more from life, right now.

“God, I missed you,” Taron whispers, punctuating each word with a peck on Jamie’s lips and grinning wide as he can manage.

“Yeah, fuck knows why we met up in such a public place. Been thinking of kissing you since I first caught a glimpse of you coming out of that cab, earlier,” Jamie says, genuine, madly in love.

“Not _all _you’ve been thinking about, though, is it?” Taron replies, cheeky. “Which brings me to… you ready to see what I have for you?”

For a minute, Jamie was so caught up in the frenzy of finally having Taron back in his arms that he’d somehow momentarily put the whole _Richard_ business on hold in the back of his mind. Now, as he remembers Taron’s promise to show him something that, if the man’s to be believed, would demonstrate that Richard cares for him too, Jamie feels himself flush pink, red, and then purple.

“Sure thing, my love. Let’s have it,” he says, as nonchalantly as he can pull off.

Taron kisses him one last time and then lifts himself up, coming to a sitting position and wriggling a tad to get his phone out of his jeans pocket. Jamie watches him intently—as he unlocks it, and the same photo of the three of them pulling silly faces at the camera lights up on both lock-screen and home-screen; as he opens the iMessage app; as he selects _Dickie_ from the list of conversations (the name has a black love-heart and a Scottish flag on each side of it, because Taron is Taron); as he scrolls up through several weeks’ worth of texts (that leaves Jamie wondering whether the man _ever_ puts his phone down, really), until a triumphant smile ghosts his lips when he finds what he’s looking for.

It distinctly looks like two pieces of media. _Videos_. Which was to be expected, probably, but Jamie still feels a weird sense of anxiety creep up his stomach when Taron finally hands him the phone.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Gonna go fix us some drinks. When you’re done, you know where to find me,” he says, the bloody Eggsy smirk-and-wink combo making another appearance. Jamie just nods and manages a weak smile, _thanks love_, then sees him strut away towards the kitchen, denim-clad bum swinging playfully—he must _know_ Jamie is staring. When Taron is out of his field of vision, he can finally give the phone his undivided attention. The blasted thing has automatically locked itself again, and Jamie has to enter the PIN, then, and it’s stupid how giddy he gets by just typing in the numbers _1_,_ 9_,_ 8_, and_ 6_.

Taron and Richard’s iMessage history immediately pops back up on the screen, and Jamie’s hands are _shaking_ when he finally presses _play_ on the first video. He has to do his best not to choke on his own saliva, then, because he was absolutely not expecting to find himself in front of a POV shot that can only have been taken on the day of the Scottish wedding Taron and Richard went to a couple weeks back, because all Jamie can see for a split-second is the unmistakeable _kilt_ he may or may not have had a wet dream about.

When Richard _lifts_ his kilt up and _Taron’s head_ emerges from under it, though—_that_’s when Jamie really loses his mind. His sunshine boy looks tousled and flustered, his lips are red and raw, and he has Richard’s _cock_ in his mouth. He’s not looking right into the camera, yet, but Jamie just _knows_ eyes must be glistening with a sheen of lust, and his prayers are answered when Richard’s deep, raspy voice comes out of the speaker, and he’s really saying _smile for Jamie, my love_, and Taron’s hungry eyes shoot up to meet the lens.

For a few, blissful seconds, he doesn’t stop going down on Richard, the realisation of what Richard is doing probably not having fully dawned on him—but then he quickly moves his head away from him. The stiff, glistening, _gorgeous_ cock inches out of his mouth painfully slowly, and Jamie can’t help but notice that some sort of zooming has been done, and that Richard’s camera work is just plain top-fucking-notch, which inevitably sends shivers down Jamie’s spine. Taron’s pretty, flushed face is now positioned directly below Richard’s cock, and he’s _smiling_, of course he is, _what a_ _good boy_, and Jamie’s name is uttered again, and something about the wedding being boring and trying to keep busy, and then he gets right back to business, and Jamie swears he can hear _Gaelic_, but then the video is immediately over.

The clip was only twenty-odd seconds long, but it felt like much, much more than that.

Jamie is now, effectively, on fire. High-voltage electricity sparks through every cubic inch of his body as he closes his eyes and asks himself if he _really _has just watched the snippet of an actual _sex tape_ between Taron and Richard that was made for _him_ especially.

He then momentarily blacks out, because it’s really quite hard to conceive that _Richard_ would think of _him_ when all of _that_ is going on around his cock and balls. Plus, Jesus Christ, they were practically in _public_, and—oh, God, is that really Taron singing _Love Lies Bleeding_ in the kitchen right now?

The high notes snap Jamie out of his shock, and he realises he needs to lie back against the couch, then, because resting his elbows on his outstretched legs is applying unwanted pressure on what is right now a very unmistakeable semi, and his T-shirt is uncomfortably sticking to his body, and he is doing his sanity absolutely no service whatsoever by clicking on the second video, but he _needs_ to see.

Saying that the sight in front of Jamie’s eyes makes him want to book a one-way ticket to hell is just a damned understatement. He is confronted with Taron—white shirt open and crumpled against his abdomen, hands grabbing the sides of what looks like a bathroom sink, a _knife_ to his fucking throat—and Richard—standing behind Taron, still fully kilt-clad, hair messy, face partially covered by the phone he’s holding to film them in the mirror—and they’re very obviously _fucking_, and Taron is nodding against the blade pressed to his throat, and he’s _moaning_, and the whole thing is, to put it plainly, the dirtiest piece of pornography Jamie has ever had the pleasure to watch. Weirdly enough, the detail that goes to Jamie’s cock most are not the gorgeous noises Richard’s thrusting is coaxing out of Taron, nor is it the stupidly tempting blade that is threatening to scratch Taron’s neck—but Richard’s own voice, coming in through the speaker once more.

“Look at… our pretty boy, _Jamie_,” he’s saying, the brogue flooding Jamie’s lower abdomen more intensely than it’s ever done, the word _pretty_ hitting him particularly hard, on account of the rolled R and the open E. “Taking it so well… So bloody tight and _perfect_…” he continues, his tones like whisky and honey. Jamie is not even sure _how_ Richard is still talking while pounding in and out of Taron, but he is blessed with a last, incredibly important piece of information, before the video is over, and that is, “Wish you were here with us, J.”

Jamie thanks his lucky stars that his carpet is thick and that Taron has chosen a sturdy cover, then, because the phone ends up just tumbling down to the floor and landing with a soft thud on the cream-coloured rug beneath his feet.

What in the _world _has he just watched?

He can’t decide whether he is more shocked or aroused, but he quickly settles on the conviction that something definitely needs to be done about the way he feels—and, before he knows it, he’s picking up the phone and standing up way too quickly, and he feels dizzy throughout his stroll towards the kitchen, but he doesn’t really mind. Taron is standing next to the counter and he’s cutting up a cucumber into short, neat stripes. He’s still humming away while he turns to face Jamie, and he looks like the epitome of delight at the sight of the bewildered expression that Jamie must now be sporting on his face.

“Thoughts, then?” Taron asks, a slice of cucumber in his hand, and then to his lips. He takes a bite and it makes a light, discreet crunching sound.

Jamie find he has completely lost the ability to express himself properly, so he decides to _act_ instead. He closes the distance between them and pins Taron to the corner of the kitchen counter, already breathing hard. Taron looks startled but oh so _pleased_, and takes it upon himself to put a stop to the deafening silence.

“You are always on our minds, Jamie. _Always_. Richard wants you too, love. _Very. Fucking. Bad_.”

Jamie groans when he finally gets to claim Taron’s lips once more, and this time he does recognise it—the urgency, the want, the life-consuming yearning for each other’s touch, and he finds he’s actually murmuring _un-fucking-believable_ into the kiss, and Taron is laughing, and Jamie is also saying _I love you, I love you, I love you_, and Taron is tilting his head back to give Jamie access to his neck. Which is great, really, because everything Jamie wants to do right now is bite him. Taron smells _divine_—a mixture of the cologne Jamie loves so much and something else he does not recognise—and Jamie wants to _eat_ him.

“Those videos,” Jamie murmurs, pulling Taron in, a hand on the back of his head to give him better access to his neck and suck a mark there, claiming him. “Richard… God, he really is very fucking wicked, isn’t he?”

“Oh, don’t—_ow_,” Taron exclaims, as Jamie starts to attack his earlobe, maybe a tad too enthusiastically, “…even get me started on that.”

“Hmm…,” Jamie moans against Taron’s ear, hands wandering on Taron’s broad shoulders and pulling at his tee, and for some reason he’s thinking of the stupid sex scene from the movie, now. “What if I _do_ want to get you started on that?” Jamie presses Taron firmly against the counter, then, and his eyes flicker between the very evident bulge in Taron’s jeans and his thoroughly well-kissed lips, that are hanging open in surprise.

“Oh, you want me to talk dirty to ya, then, Jamie Bell?”

“More like—I’d like you to bring me up to speed with the piece of work that is Richard Madden,” he explains, in-between traveling down Taron’s body, leaving a line of wanton kisses all over his torso and belly, “…and his enigmatic sexual fantasies. Especially if they involve _me_,” Jamie replies, surprised at his own eloquence, when he’s effectively now kneeling between Taron’s legs. “C’mon, sweet’eart. Help a lad out. I _need_ to know it all.” Jamie does his best impression of a lost boy, then—and immediately destroys his already completely unconvincing act by bringing one hand up to cup Taron’s very obvious erection through his jeans and the other on the buckle of his belt.

“Oh, you will, my love,” Taron says, his smirk turning into a wince and him biting his lip instead, when Jamie decides to deliberately stroke his cock. “Want me to be explicit about—ah, alright, we’re really doing this in the _kitchen_, then, eh?” Taron’s eyes widen at Jamie unbuckling his belt and making a show of popping the first button of the jeans. Jamie just nods, at that, and he doesn’t break eye contact.

“We most certainly are. Also, since you’re in a talkative mood, why don’t you start to spill the beans while I _take care_ of you, sunshine?”

“Sin. You are _sin_, Jamie. Yes, yes, of course, I’ll talk.”

“I’m all ears, pet,” Jamie says, and he’s just finished unbuttoning Taron’s jeans, and he’s _hungry_. “Tell me about Richard fucking you in his kilt, and tell me what he tastes like, and tell me what noises he makes when he comes. Tell me about Richard Madden losing control. Tell me how he sounds when he talks about us. What he wants from _me_.”

Jamie is now hooking his thumbs on the top of the loose jeans and pulling them off, impossibly slowly, and he watches Taron completely melting into his touch.

“Yes, Jamie, yes, mmmh…” Taron hums, as Jamie uncovers a bit of his stomach, and he kisses him there—slow, deep, tongue and teeth, licking and scraping, smooching and biting, impossibly slowly, all the while keeping perfect eye contact.

Taron moans loudly as he brings a hand up to Jamie’s head and he presses him closer, all the while contracting his abs, more or less consciously resisting Jamie’s bites as his belt and fly are finally undone—and, fucking _hell_, this man is wearing absolutely _nothing_ under his jeans, is he?

_Fuck_. Jamie needs to centre himself for a second, because for one second or two he feels an overwhelming urge struggling to take control, an animal instinct screaming that he really should cut the talk, bend Taron over the kitchen counter, eat him out, finger and fuck him until he begs for mercy.

But this simply can’t happen, not so quickly, anyways—because Jamie is apparently about to hear all about Richard Madden lusting over _him_, of all people, and he can’t get bloody distracted. Well, maybe that’s not quite correct, either. He will allow himself the delicious entertainment that is thoroughly licking and sucking at Taron’s cock, and not letting him come until he decides he can.

“You’re so _naughty_, darling,” Jamie says, against the delicate skin of Taron’s stomach, then moving to kiss down and down the trail of short hairs connecting his navel and groin, right in-between the sides of his now unbuttoned fly, and stopping right before he gets to the bottom, before he indulges in freeing Taron’s now gloriously aching shaft from the denim. “That eager to see me, aren’t you?” he asks, starting to pull Taron’s jeans off—_very_ slowly.

“I just—fuck, J, I need you, I need you now, _please_,” he begs, his hands joining Jamie’s and guiding them lower, an obvious encouragement for Jamie to get rid of the fucking jeans already, and get started on using his skilled mouth on him.

“Oh, but pet,” Jamie says, biting at the lowest point that he can reach while Taron is still completely denim clad. “You promised to tell me about Richard. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, my love?”

“Hmm-hmm,” Taron nods, jerking his hips forward to encourage Jamie’s lustful bites. “Richard… First time I told him about us, he—oh, took you long enough,” he interrupts himself, as Jamie’s hands finally free him of his jeans. All Jamie wants to do is to take him in his mouth and make him squirm, but… not yet.

“I’m listening, sweet’eart,” he says, bringing both hands on Taron’s abs and scratching lightly, as he glances up to see Taron thoroughly torture his lower lip with his teeth, gripping the kitchen counter with one hand, and flexing his forearm muscles as he tugs lightly at Jamie’s hair. “What did Richard say?”

“He said he would love to see me suck you off while he fucks me from behind,” Taron says, in one single breath.

Oh, well, _god fucking damn_. Jamie’s mind runs wild and fast towards the mental image he’s just been fed, and it’s _beautiful_, and it’s absolutely filthy, and he can almost feel Taron whimpering around his mouthful as Richard pounds into him, and he can hear Richard’s low, gravelly moans, and he can picture moving in closer and grab Richard’s head in his hands and kissing him roughly over Taron’s body, and…

“My God, Taron, yes,” Jamie breathes, soft, yearning, against Taron’s neglected erection, which seems to be intermittently twitching as more and more blood pools into it. He’s desperate for it, now, Jamie can tell, just looking at that one single drop leaking from the head of his cock and ever-so-slowly trickling down—damn, that’s a vision. Jamie licks over the wet path of precum with the tip of his tongue, and he feels Taron shiver under his delicate touch.

“Please, love, _please_,” Taron groans, bucking his hips forward again and bringing a second hand to Jamie’s head.

Jamie just looks up at him, expecting. _You know what you have to do, my love_. Taron huffs in mock despair, and he smiles as he caresses Jamie’s head, soft but firm.

“He said that more than once, actually,” he goes on, “and he won’t shut up about how ravishing you are in the bed selfies you send me, and he _loves_ hearing about how skilled you are with your t… oh, _fuck_, yes,” he moans, as Jamie decides Taron deserves a reward for all the incredible imagery he’s providing him with, and finally takes him in his mouth, enveloping hot flesh with his lips, then moving his head forward to accommodate Taron’s full length generously, working with his tongue to turn every sensation up to eleven.

The light of Jamie’s life is positively whining, now, running his hands all over Jamie’s head and the nape of his neck, and he’s completely losing it after barely thirty seconds of Jamie blowing him—a week, apparently, was a long time for him, too—and Jamie normally _loves _seeing him coming undone under his touch, but today he simply cannot have it. He needs to know more. About Richard. About what Richard wants. About what may happen tomorrow night.

Jamie gently slides off Taron’s cock, continuously lapping and sucking and moaning, and as it leaves his mouth completely, Taron’s whimper is one of frustration and loss, rather than of toe-curling pleasure, and Jamie finds this reminds him a lot of the two or twelve or twenty-two times he might have done this to himself, in the past few weeks, as he was thinking of finding himself in bed with a very needy and very compliant Richard Madden. Edging. Edging is key. Also, he needs Taron to talk some more.

“More, my love,” Jamie commands, planting wet kisses all over Taron’s shaft and looking mischievously up at him. Taron looks like he could come on the spot. This is _fun_. “Tell me more about Richard.”

“You’re going to drive me fucking insane, ‘ere, darling,” Taron says, exasperated, but Jamie knows for a fact that the frustration is just because Jamie’s refusing to do his thing properly—other than that, he’s _definitely_ enjoying picturing his two lovers having it bad for each other. Jamie can just see it in his eyes. They’re clouded with lust and anticipation, and there’s much more in there than a pedestrian _get the fuck on with this blowjob already, James_. “I think Rich wants to feel what I feel. And I’m not just talking about oral, here. I mean, he’s definitely not saying…hmmm, thank you, love,” he says, interrupting himself again, as Jamie wraps his hand around his spit-slick length and starts slowly pumping on it. “He’s not saying he wouldn’t want that. But he seems to be craving your _cock_, more than anything. Might be my…hmmm...fault, actually. I rarely shut up about it.”

The praise definitely does it for Jamie, and he can’t really help his free hand from finding the growing bulge in his own trousers and rub it, through the thick material, which causes him to have to stifle a loud moan. God, he needs…

“Is that so, pet?” he forces himself to ask, keeping up the dirty banter, stashing his desire away in the red-hot pile he’s been building for at least half an hour, now. Taron nods, desperately. “And did Richard say anything more about _that_, specifically?” Jamie asks, as he rewards Taron again by kissing the tip of his cock.

“I’m… fuck, please, Jamie, do that again?” he pleads, his voice shaking, and he goes back to gripping the counter with both hands.

He’s asking so nicely, yet Jamie stays absolutely still, in anticipation. Taron looks down at him, and he smiles up, encouragingly—as if to say, _go on, darling, speak_. Taron growls under his breath, rumbling like thunder. “He didn’t _tell_ me anything else, J,” he declares, sounding drained yet eager. “Although, from what I gathered, I’m one hundred percent sure he definitely be partial to you hoisting him up furniture and making him cry out your name. Which is currently thoroughly fucking with my mind, if I’m honest.” Taron’s brow is sweaty, and he looks like he’s about to lose it entirely.

Alright, that’s about it, Jamie thinks. He got what he needed. Time to put his own mouth to good use, now.

“Well, you never know, pet,” Jamie says, punctuating every word with a rewarding tongue-charged kiss on Taron’s cock. The salty, tangy taste of precum is sweet as ever on his tongue as he does that, and he can’t help but notice that Taron’s whining has gotten to a level that might well be described as _imploring_. “A lot could happen tomorrow night,” he adds, not quite believing what he’s implying, either.

Taron’s breath catches in his throat at the realisation of what Jamie just said, just as Jamie finally starts going down on him properly. Then, his surprise turns into full-fledged pleasure and adoration, and Jamie’s mind mixes the gorgeous sounds Taron is making with the image of pinning Richard Madden down on his bed and make him see stars—and then he drinks it all up, and it tastes like the best cocktail he’s ever had in his life, and he cannot _fucking_ wait for tomorrow to come, so he can try his hand at turning each and every one of his dirty fantasies into reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are by Arctic Monkeys—and Arctic Monkeys only—this week. Deal with it, as per.
> 
> Yeah, yeah, I heard you re: Jamie and the sex tapes, haven’t I? What you don’t know is how long this bit has been written for—absolute fucking _ages_, baby. I hope you enjoyed hearing what Richard said, directly aimed at Jamie, that Taron definitely did not hear on the spot—too busy being wrecked from behind, with a knife against his throat, I guess—as my lovely beta reader has pointed out. Jamie certainly did appreciate that bit, of that I’m sure.
> 
> Also, yes, Jamie is: a) very confused, but also very smitten and very ready to go all the way. And b) just generally, very fucking wicked.
> 
> You guys. I really hope you can hold on for a couple more weeks to see what that last one’s all about.
> 
> Speaking of, next week is Babey’s turn again. Our favourite egghead is feeling needy and giddy on the day of his twenty-ninth birthday, and he’s being spoiled like the prince he is. As he should.
> 
> See you next week for more love (and more smut).
> 
> Love, 
> 
> C xx


	15. 15. Taron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the morning of Taron’s twenty-ninth birthday.
> 
> He’s feeling needy and _mellow_.
> 
> Jamie lives to please him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday, people.
> 
> The last week was fucking bonkers, but I made it out (more or less) alive. In the remote eventuality you’d be interested: in no particular order, I managed to fly to London twice in less than four days, I saw Taron and Dexter being their goofy, funny selves (Taron went on about his _knob_ a lot, if you can believe it—I know I can), I congratulated Dexter fucking Fletcher on the movie while we were standing on moving escalators going in opposite directions, and just generally was my best fangirl self. I regret absolutely nothing.
> 
> Now, we’re back to reality, and back to our love story—and it’s finally time to spoil baby boy for his birthday. So let’s get on with it already, shall we?
> 
> As usual, many many thanks to [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) for the early work on this chapter, which is an extremely premature child of this whole process, and which would never have been this good were it not for them boosting me and guiding me throughout it. I can now proudly say it contains what probably is my favourite smut from this whole thing, and I could not have done it without you, darling. Also, of course, thanks a million for the beta, which resulted in some major rearrangement and probably a thousand-odd words being added to the mix—because I think I might have a problem, and these chapters always end up being ridiculously long for no real reason. Anyways, more for you to read, so maybe it’s not all bad, eh? Point being, great collaborations make for great end results. 
> 
> Also, little disclaimer I think I should make: I’m very sorry to all the Madderton/Richard stans out there—this is another Jamie/Taron chapter. Only this time, and I think for the very first time, we see the scene from Taron’s POV. I really love this chapter, and I honestly hope you’ll enjoy this (quite literal) plunge into the world of Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Let’s get on with it, then, shall we?

** _Part I – It’s the same old feeling I get when you’re stealing back into my bed again / Wrecking the sheets real fine_ **

_Saturday, November 10th — Taron’s birthday, morning_

The smell of coffee coming from the tiny crack in the door is, in one word, _vivifying_.

Not like Taron hasn’t just had one of the best night’s sleeps in weeks—the bed was comfy, the pillows just the right amount of firm, the covers fluffy, the linen crisp and fresh on, still smelling of fabric softener, and the arms around him warm and tight as they could be. He’s just really, _really_ partial to a good cup of coffee.

The intoxicating promise of a hot drink makes Taron tingle with anticipation. He reckons it probably has the potential to be the best brew he’ll ever have, judging by the fact that it comes from Jamie’s new heavy duty and extremely fancy Jura machine, that he only briefly had the chance to gush about last night—it had proven a tad difficult to go on about kitchen appliances while Jamie was busy pinning Taron against the counter and unbuttoning his trousers, greedily eyeing Taron’s crotch and licking his lips.

As soon as his eyes are fully open and he can finally take in the whole of the luminous bedroom in the snazzy Tower Hamlets penthouse apartment, Taron immediately finds himself unable to think of anything or anyone other than _Jamie, Jamie, Jamie_. He is, quite simply, all around. The amount of Arsenal posters, vintage team photos, signed footballs, shirts, selfies with top players, and overall fanboy paraphernalia on the walls and in _three_ different glass display cases is impossible not to find ridiculously endearing. Not the biggest football fan himself, Taron can’t help but admire the man’s dedication and the eagerness with which Jamie relentlessly follows the Gunners, without missing one single match, ever.

There’s a _Billy Elliot_ poster hanging on the portion of wall in-between the en-suite and the giant closet, and Taron’s heart melts at how impossibly _young_ the talented, strong, passionate thirtysomething ray of sunshine he’s come to know in the past couple of months once was.

Then, his eyes flick to the right of the bathroom door, and he finds himself cackling way too loud when he takes in that Jamie actually has a _Nymphomaniac_ poster hanging in his fucking bedroom—and he’ll be damned if the expression Jamie is pulling in the picture is not almost exactly the one that gets painted on his beautiful face every single time the pair of them enjoy explosive sex. He’s seen that before, but he’s sure he’ll never get over that. Not in a million years.

Upon Jamie’s chest of drawers stands a collection of pictures of the smallest baby Taron has ever seen, progressively turning into a bubbly, wobbly toddler, with the same exact sweet smile that his dad sports on the daily when Taron and him are together, and with the blondest hair known to man. Little Jack Bell just won’t stop beaming at Taron from the dozens of photo frames, and Taron melts at every single one of them. The reminder that Jamie has actually reproduced, and that the result is such a perfect little human being fills him with giddy happiness, and his heart feels like it’s lying next to a toasty fireplace.

In short, Jamie’s bedroom is quite possibly one of Taron’s favourite places in the whole entire world.

Taron has just about finished elaborating this conclusion when the bedroom door opens fully and from it emerges the man himself, wearing a baby blue dressing gown, bright smile illuminating his sharp features, hair wet and slicked back, and holding a wooden breakfast tray in hand—steaming mugs of coffee, milk, a few pieces of fruit and the best-looking croissants that Taron has seen in a while, which he expects will be the _pièce de resistance_, hand-in-hand with the coffee. The coffee. _All_ the coffee.

“Have I ever mentioned that I bloody love you, James?” His voice is croaky with sleep and the few cigarettes he had last night—which he entirely blames on the one glass too many he knows they are both regretting right about now. Jamie had a whole litre of Botanist gin stashed in his liquor cabinet. Unopened. And Taron is only flesh and blood. Plus, gin has been, after all, part of the “problem” from day one. So, yeah, they’re both a bit hungover today. It’s okay, really, because they have absolutely nothing important to do—except maybe for the night they’ve got planned with _Richard_. Oh, good God, Taron better not think about _that_ just yet, otherwise he might not be able to survive the day with his sanity intact.

Jamie takes a few steps towards the bed and settles the tray at the foot of it, on the bedroom bench. His smile is wide and contagious, his eyes sweet and perfectly content, the tiny wrinkles around them accentuating his beauty—the level of which is _embarrassing_ at the best of times, but now it simply is reaching _absolute_ territory. His dressing gown hangs a little loose on his chest, the tattoo on his left pec partially showing, and this for some reason makes Taron’s breath catch slightly.

“You might have, actually. One or two _million_ times,” Jamie replies, circling the bed, settling on the edge of it, so he is close to Taron, and coming to caress his cheek with the back of his hand. “I bloody love you too, Taron. Still can’t quite believe I get to call you mine.”

Their lips meet in the most delicate, delicious way, and Taron hums into the kiss. Jamie has obviously already had the time to brush his teeth, because he tastes very faintly of cinnamon. As much as Taron cannot quite believe that _cinnamon_, of all flavours, is Jamie’s preference for a toothpaste, the bloody freak does taste amazing, and Taron now wishes it was Christmas, like, tomorrow.

“Good morning, you,” Taron says, realising he still hasn’t said it, too busy gushing over the simple gesture of breakfast in bed and lusting over Jamie Bell in revealing bedroom attire.

“Good mornin’,” Jamie murmurs, his smile widening some more in the kiss, and the O in _mornin’ _is open and dragged out, and Taron has such a _thing_ for that, and he simply can’t resist starting to nibble away at Jamie’s lips in-between smooches. “Happy birthday, my love,” he adds, smiling into the kiss.

“Oh yeah, that,” Taron replies, mindlessly. “Another year older. Glad I’m celebrating in this bed with you, gorgeous.”

Grey-eyed Prince Charming grins back at him as he runs both hands over the short hairs of Taron’s shaved head. “Wouldn’t have had it any other way. Slept okay, sunshine?”

“The best,” Taron replies, still mid-kiss, his hands closing around Jamie’s jaw, possessively. God, he tastes good. The cinnamon hits him again and he finds himself craving chai tea all of a sudden, but he’s quickly brought back in the moment by Jamie’s voice. Mellifluous, delicious, silky—caressing every inch of Taron like an expensive fur on a naked body.

“Hmmm…" Jamie hums, contentedly. "We eager, this mornin’, sweet’eart?” The _pet names_. Jamie always was a champion for those. And he’s so right, too. Taron _does_ want him again, quite possibly right now, thank you very much.

“Maybe,” he replies, and he tries to sound tentative and coy, when in reality he’s just as keen as ever. He’s just feeling very… _soft_ this morning. He fleetingly recalls someone using the word _mellow_, actually, and he goes on to wonder whether there ever will be a time when these songs will not fit him as perfectly as that bloody jacket did, a few months back.

Jamie’s eyes widen, and his breath catches in his throat. “I literally _just_ fetched brekkie. Coffee’ll get cold, pet.” His smile is as sweet as it is unconvinced, and Taron can _see_ him melt in front of his eyes. So, he chimes in again.

“But Jamie, it’s my _birthday_,” he insists, pulling Jamie in for a kiss and effectively dragging the top half of the man down with him, so that he’s now sitting on the side of the bed and his elbows rest on each side of Taron’s head. They part slightly, but Jamie’s mouth sticks around, hovering a few inches from Taron’s, and his breath is hot and already a little heavy. “Plus, well… I can still feel you from last night. But I wanna feel you again. And again. All day long. I wanna feel you when I’m out on the town with Richard, later, and I still wanna feel you when I get here with him, tonight.”

Taron knows he’s scored when Jamie actually bites down on his lower lip and he positively _penetrates_ him with his gaze. God, those eyes. So different from Richard’s. So unique. So _Jamie_. The idea of what’s possibly going to happen in a few hours hits him hard and strong, for a second, and he drifts away. It’s Jamie’s voice that brings him back to reality once more.

“You’ll be the death of me, you know that, Taron Egerton?” Jamie probably wants to sound exasperated, but he is _so_ caving in approximately fifteen more seconds, and Taron is just really enjoying seeing him fake-struggle. Jamie sits back up and Taron watches him trying and failing to compose himself, eyes darting from the breakfast tray to Taron and back again—Jamie Bell’s finest _Hamlet_ moment.

When Jamie’s gaze is back on his, Taron gives him an innocent smile. Momentarily considers a cheeky retort, something like _doing my very best_, but quickly decides against it, because Jamie is kissing him again, then, and it’s like the smell of his shower gel is catapulting him into a misty wet, lusciously perfumed steam room, and that gets him so worked up, so quickly, that he has to push back against Jamie to be able to lift the heavy duvet and shove it as far as he can on the generous king-size, because he is, quite simply, _burning up_.

“Please, Jamie. I _need_ you,” he begs—and he’s genuine, and he’s naked, and he’s hard, and he’s pressing his overheated body against every bit of Jamie he can touch, and he’s saying _please_ again and again and again, and he thinks he might explode with desire if Jamie doesn’t do something, immediately.

Jamie does not reply at first, settling on moaning softly—a lusty, Romeo-like sigh that sounds like a mixture of undying love and soul-consuming desire. He’s back to biting his lip, and he’s _ravishing_, and Taron knows he has got him wrapped him around his little finger, because he’s now standing up, undoing his dressing gown and shimmying out of it.

Taking in Jamie’s slender, athletic figure, so gloriously bare for his eyes only, is like getting a drink of water after a week in the desert. Taron is fully convinced he could write a whole PhD thesis on Jamie Bell’s body—his perfectly round shoulders, collarbones, imposing pecs, understated-but-definitely-there six-pack, the V shape of his obliques, guiding the eye towards his most intimate parts, down to his muscular thighs and the toned, talented legs that made him world-famous, some twenty years ago.

“Christ, J. Fucking _gorgeous_,” Taron says, breathless, mindless, the words escaping his mouth just as arousal pools in his lower abdomen. His cock twitches at the sight of Jamie’s, and he is ecstatic to realise that Jamie, too, is hard for him, and he marvels at how _easy_ and _comfortable_ this whole thing between the two of them has become.

Jamie is still standing next to the bed, shins to mattress, and his body is slightly twisted, and his abs, his thighs, his _everything_ is somehow strained and contracted—as if it’s being attracted towards Taron like an industrial strength magnet, but simultaneously waiting for his permission to act.

For his part, Taron just wants to kiss and bite and _worship_ it all. “C’mere, love. I want you so bad.” He comes to a sitting position on the bed, and reaches out a hand to caress Jamie’s abs, curling his fingers slightly, applying pressure, gently scratching—but not quite.

Something stirs in Jamie, and the magnet is turned on. He climbs on top of Taron—the stunning body is pressed flush against his, and he is moving his hips ever so slightly, his erection just grinding against Taron’s lower belly, and he’s kissing Taron’s neck, and he’s uttering _my perfect boy_. It’s quite frankly too much already, and it’s not how Taron wants to go about it at all. He wants to be in charge, this morning. He wants to do all the work, give Jamie what he deserves.

“Hmm… love, let _me_… take care of _you_,” Taron breathes, already flustered, but determined to stay in control. Jamie’s head emerges from the spot on his neck where he’s just marked him. Taron tries not to think of the fact that _Richard_ will definitely see that, tonight, and that the three of them will likely be playing the love game on this very bed, because this, now, is all about _Jamie_. “On your back for me, love. Wanna _taste_ you.”

Jamie smiles mischievously, then takes Taron’s lower lip between his teeth and nibbles at it, idly, for a second. “I do love it when you’re bossy, pet. Makes me lose my _fuckin’ _mind.”

His weight is off Taron, and he rolls over on the bed, his head split between the two big fluffy pillows, his legs sprawled, the right amount of vulnerable—_magnificent_, really—and ready to receive Taron’s every attention. Taron positions himself on top of Jamie, straddling him, balls hovering over Jamie’s already impossibly hard cock, hands running up and down the perfectly toned pecs. When his fingers graze over the piece of ink right over Jamie’s left nipple, etched on top of his heart—the celebration of bringing another fragment of beauty into the world—Taron’s heart and lower belly pulse fiercely, in a mixture of love and anticipation. He can’t help but bend over, then, and bring his lips to it. A ring of fiery kisses around the tattoo, and Jamie is moaning away already.

“I… love… your… tattoos… James…” Taron murmurs, against his skin, each word punctuated by pressing his lips to Jamie’s soft, clean skin, still smelling like that shower gel he loves so much. Jamie’s hand is on Taron’s head, now, and he’s pressing it against his own chest, elated, eager.

“Hmmm… do ya, sunshine?” Jamie replies, arching into Taron’s touch and bringing his right hand behind his own head.

“Really, really do,” Taron says, now looking up from Jamie’s chest and grinning at the pin-up girl smirking at him from the contracted flesh of Jamie’s bicep. One of Taron’s absolute favourite things about that tattoo is that he always gets to dig his teeth into it while Jamie is buried deep inside him and stroking masterfully against the spot that makes him scream. He can’t help but give her some attention, then, and move on to kiss and bite and lick the hard muscle, groaning in pleasure while he’s at it.

“Look at you, Jamie. Look at your fucking body. Look at how _perfect_ you are, love.”

The praise seems to really do it for Jamie, then, because Taron feels Jamie reach a hand underneath his thighs straddling Jamie’s middle, and grabbing his cock, and—_oh, God_, he’s pressing the tip of it against Taron’s arse, and then he’s fully committing to it, stroking his full length against it, painfully slowly.

“Fuck, baby…” is all Jamie can muster for a second, as he’s _tapping_ his cock against the crack of Taron’s bum.

Taron really wants time to deliberate, then. Consider whether he would prefer to wait, suck him off, make him want it more.

But, realistically, who is he kidding?

_He_ was the one begging for it, a couple of minutes ago. He is still stretched-out and tender from last night, and he wants it _so fucking bad_, he’s convinced he might self-combust any minute now. Which is why he settles on pushing his arse as powerfully as he can down against Jamie’s cock, trying to contract his cheeks to create more friction—and then Jamie’s hands reach over his thighs and land on his hips, sliding further down still to apply pressure on both buttocks, so that he’s effectively fucking into Taron’s crack.

“Oh, _Jamie_,” Taron groans, throwing his head and body back, closing his eyes and arching into the heat of Jamie’s cock, which so deliciously close to giving him everything he wants. His hands are clawing into thin air, looking for skin to touch, hair to pull, _anything_. He quickly opens his eyes again and tilts his head back to glance down at Jamie, however, because he knows the man must look even more gorgeous, at this angle—and he’s right, of course, Jamie is absolutely _scrumptious_.

“Gonna ask nicely for it, sweet’eart?” Jamie offers, momentarily interrupting the torturous business of destroying his lower lip with his teeth to smirk up at Taron, who is now scratching at his pecs, his ribs, his abs, feeling every fibre of muscle burn up in his wake.

“I want your cock, Jamie,” he says, firmly, feeling a little cheesy and half-hoping Jamie will not recognise the line. He does, of course, and couples his chiming laugh with a particularly _fond_ thrust of his hips against Taron’s arse.

“Forgetting something, aren’t you, pet?”

“_Please_, Jamie. Please, fuck me.”

“_Yes_, baby,” Jamie grunts, and he sits up, then, arms snaking up Taron’s sides to hold him firmly against his chest, lips and crashing into Taron’s right nipple, and Taron is looking down at him, and grey ice pooled with ink black meets his gaze in an instant, and Jamie is saying _you’re so beautiful_, and _I’m going to make you feel so good_, and he’s _still _grinding his cock against Taron’s arse, and Taron simply can’t take it anymore.

“Now, love, I need it _now_, please…”

“Fucking hell, Taron,” Jamie growls against his skin, before reaching a hand out towards the bedside table, looking for something very specific. Taron watches his hand close around the tiny black bottle and a wave of arousal makes his whole body shudder. Jamie unscrews the lid with his teeth—why is _that_ so hot?—and when the cap is finally off and Jamie is about to squirt some lube on his fingers, Taron goes to grab the bottle from him.

“No, let _me _do it.”

“Oh, _fuck_, Taron. Yes, yes, yes,” Jamie says, enthusiastically, as he lies back against the pillows, left hand grabbing firmly at Taron’s thigh, right hand back in his hair, deliberately flexing his tattooed arm up at Taron and smirking imperceptibly—because _he knows_. He knows what the fucking tattoo does to Taron.

On cue, the ink goes, once again, straight to Taron’s cock. He does force himself to maintain a form of composure, however—as much as he can, at least, now that the promise of Jamie fucking him is hanging in the air, so close he can already _feel_ it. He proceeds to slick two fingers up with lube, then immediately pushes his knees on the bed and reaches around himself with his left hand, pressing them against his entrance, feeling the muscle, way looser than usual, way easier to work with. He presses his right palm against Jamie’s left pec, touching the tattoo and fighting not to lose his mind over it, and, _fuck_, Jamie’s hand is now closing around Taron’s cock and stroking deliberately, the smirk on his lips still well in place.

“So _beautiful_, T. My gorgeous, sunshine boy. Open yourself up for me, love, c’mon…”

Taron’s fingers are free to move effortlessly in and out of him in a matter of what feels like a mere thirty seconds. He does not wish to indulge in the solo action too much, however. What he’d much rather is to have _your cock in me, Jamie, right now_, and oh, God, he sure does hope he said that out loud and not only screamed it inside his head.

Jamie definitely seems to have heard him, though—thank fuck—and proceeds to answer Taron’s plea by grabbing the momentarily discarded bottle of lube and quite literally _coating_ his free hand in it, then reaching under Taron to slick his cock up until it glistens in the morning light. When, finally, Jamie seems to be satisfied with his lube job, his hand is off himself and back to touching Taron. In fact, Taron takes Jamie grabbing his hips with both hands with renewed keen strength to mean that it’s finally time, time for Jamie’s cock to press at his entrance, time for Taron to _let him in_.

“Mmmmhgod, yes, _fuck_, J,” Taron groans, loud, shifting back to progressively sit down on his heels, making himself comfortable while Jamie sinks into him inch by inch, until his pelvis is flush against the curve of Taron’s arse. They’ve only done it like this once before, and Taron wonders why, because it’s _incredible_. Jamie sits up again, then, and his hands travel up to press Taron’s abdomen against his own chest, and it’s like _déjà vu_ when their eyes meet again, like they did only a few minutes before, but now Jamie is _inside_ him, and Taron feels him _everywhere_, and it’s all so amazingly _intense_, he thinks he might burst.

“I want you to move _very slowly_ for me, pet,” Jamie instructs, his voice shaking a little, gripping Taron’s hips and grazing one nipple with his teeth.

Taron obeys, then, and moves up, fucking himself on Jamie’s cock, feeling every inch of it sliding out of him, impossibly slowly, and then revelling in the bliss of getting to sit back down on it, wiggling his hips in just the right way to get his prostate stroked, and it’s _everything_.

“God, _yes_,” he moans, hands coming up to grab at Jamie’s hair while Jamie nuzzles the sparse hair on his chest and plants feathery kisses all over it. Jamie then presses his heels against the mattress, and the angle changes slightly, and it’s _better_, if at all possible, and he starts thrusting to meet Taron’s rhythm, his hands firm on Taron’s hips, his muscles strained, the eye contact everlasting and so _intimate_, and Taron simply can’t help the words coming out of his mouth, like an overflowing river of emotions and mind-numbing pleasure.

“I—mmh,” he tries and fails, during a particularly intense and deliberate stroke. He tries again. “I _love_ you, Jamie.”

Jamie’s eyes light up at the declaration, and for a second he looks as surprised and elated and _blessed_ as the first time Taron said the words to him. “I love you too, Taron. So… fucking… much,” Jamie says, reinforcing the last words with fierce kisses on Taron’s chest. The words hit Taron square in the heart, and he feels _whole_.

They both start moving again, then, holding each other tight, finding a delicious pace, not too slow, not too fast, just intense and blissful and _perfect_. Jamie’s hands constantly travel between Taron’s hips and the curve of his bum and he murmurs sweet nothings against his chest in-between deep strokes, too lust-consumed to elaborate properly, his usually eloquent conversation reduced to rudimentary bedroom talk, struggling within an inch of his life to keep the eye contact alive and burning. Taron _loves_ seeing him lose control like this. Professional, put-together, intelligent Jamie Bell, reduced to a puddle of wanton mess for his eyes only.

“You feel so good, baby… So… fucking… good…” Jamie manages to articulate, after a few minutes of gushy, slow, toe-curling lovemaking. Quite right he is, too. This is, quite simply, _mesmerising_ sex.

And then Taron watches as Jamie momentarily loses it, after two particularly deep and hard jerks of his hips, and he throws his head back in ecstasy—and Taron can’t help but doing the same. That, incidentally, is the moment when he decides he definitely needs more, more, _more, Jamie, harder, please, love_.

Jamie nods and bites down hard on Taron’s pec as he moves his hands up on his body and grips him right below his armpits, loving, strong—and somehow manages to lift himself up on his knees for the split second it takes to ease Taron’s back on the mattress. Taron’s head rests right next to the foot of the bed. Jamie’s hands grab Taron’s thighs possessively, and he starts pounding into him at increased speed and intensity, and he’s floating high, high up in the London sky on a surprisingly sunny November morning, and he wonders whether he’s ever felt so good in his life.

“Right there—_oh_, love, _yes_,” Taron groans, and Jamie buries his head in the crook of Taron’s neck and lightly chuckles while he’s kissing the raw bits of skin that he’s left his mark on, a few minutes earlier.

“I like it when you’re loud, baby,” he announces, thrusting himself harder—one, two, three times, effectively making Taron scream. “_Fuck_, yes, you’re perfect, let me hear you, my love...”

Taron loses any ability to form full words, melting into a stream of incoherent noises and grunts, his whole body strained towards the sweet release that feels close, _so close_, he can already feel his brain tingling from it. While pleasure builds up in his every nerve ending, every fibre of muscle, every drop of blood, Taron desperately claws at Jamie’s back and somehow tries to get the words _close_ and _come_ out, and Jamie takes it to mean that he can go all out, and he does. The _sounds_ that engenders—Jamie’s pelvis and thighs slapping against the back of Taron’s thighs and arse; the slick, wet noise of his cock, pushing in and coming out, rapid, inexorable; every moan and piece of dirty imagery escaping Jamie’s lips—those are definitely helping to push Taron even further towards his orgasm.

Taron has his eyes closed and takes all of that in as deeply and eagerly as he’s taking Jamie’s cock, which is stretching him oh so _deliciously_, and stroking the sweet spot inside him so _well_—and Jamie’s hand is now jerking him off, too, fucking hell—and the intensity of the climax hits him like the rush of cold air he felt that one time when, as a reckless teenager, he jumped out of a plane strapped to a parachute to prove a point. He’s free-falling, and Jamie is the air around him, inside him and all over him, he’s his whole world, and he shines bright as the sun, and Taron is spilling all over his chest and on Jamie’s hand, which keeps going even when he’s done, precious torture being dragged out for a few blissful seconds more—_wonderful_.

“Yes, baby, God, look at you,” Jamie groans appreciatively, bending over to lick a strip of come off Taron’s chest. He doesn’t stop thrusting nor talking, and the praise continues, then, “Look at how _pretty_ you are—oh, _fuck_, Taron, gonna come, love…”

“Come inside me, J, fill me up…” Taron moans, and he doesn’t quite know where the words have come from—but they seem to have done the trick, because Jamie’s thrusts are now stuttering, closer and closer together, until Taron feels even more _full_ all of a sudden, and they kiss, lips and teeth colliding while Jamie groans in his mouth, riding his own orgasm.

In the aftermath, Jamie is so spent he quite literally collapses over Taron. Both of their chests rise and fall in unison, heavy breaths mixing, until Jamie pulls out of Taron, and the loss leaves Taron almost heartbroken, but then Jamie is lying next to him and he’s caressing his face, grey eyes fixed on his, and he’s saying _I love you_ over and over, and he feels every bit as full as he just was, a few seconds ago, after all.

“I love you too, dancing boy,” Taron says, and Jamie’s smile widens, and he _blushes_. “God, I can’t get enough of you. You’re an _artist_, love.” Jamie chuckles at that, shakes his head, and pulls him in for a soft, chaste kiss.

“And your arse is _magnificent_, T. We should _always _do it like this. The _riding_, I mean. Would you like that, pet?”

“Ah, J. I’m not usually particularly fond of riding, if I’m honest,” Taron says, and he’s fake-pondering out loud, right now, because he has something extremely cheesy and apropos to say next. “With you it’s different, though, for some reason. Then again, you know what they say. Save a horse…”

Jamie doesn’t get it immediately, and then he does, and it’s almost _too_ funny to see realisation dawn on him all of a sudden.

“I can’t _believe_ you, Taron. No, I’m not saying that, no _fucking_ way.”

“C’mon, love, for me? You know you want to.”

Jamie sighs, defeated. He rests his head on the mattress and murmurs the word into the pale white cotton.

“…ride a cowboy.”

“Attaboy,” Taron smirks, satisfied, while Jamie looks like he would like the ground to swallow him whole. “Now, where’s that coffee at? Bet it’s cold, now, too. Honestly, James. A man can’t even have his breakfast in peace, these days.”

** _Part II – Mine for ever more / I’d buy a big house where we both could live_ **

_One hour later_

As usual, Taron ends up spending _way_ too long in Jamie’s humongous, circular shower. The thing has a big fuck-off rain head that he never fails to lose himself under, and atmospheric lights, and even no lights at all—that’s an option, too, if you like, and it’s Taron’s preferred one when he’s alone. He closes his eyes and immerses himself in full darkness, drifting off as the waterfall washes away the residual sweat and bodily fluids.

What rudely knocks him back into complete consciousness is the feeling of Jamie’s come running down the inside of his thigh, which threatens to turn him on again—and for a good ten seconds he considers calling out to him to demand that round two happens right against the wall of the shower—but, in reality, he’s spent from the ridiculously good fucks they had last night and this morning, and besides, something is _definitely _in the air for tonight. Plus, he has _stuff_ planned for later, and it’s a surprise, and he needs to be in top shape for it, and he will be _damned_ if he ruined it by once again succumbing to sexual greediness.

He lathers his body in a generous amount of the foaming shower gel that he’s been absolutely addicted to since first smelling it on Jamie, and he lets the balsamic smell of it transport him into a luxurious hammam somewhere in Turkey. When he’s washed it off, he finds himself briefly considering the shampoo, but quickly changes his mind—_fool, Taron, you’re a bald fool, leave the shampoo to the people who still have hair_. Instead, he turns the water on again and randomly starts humming to Joni’s _Little Green_—which is definitely too high for his voice, but which he absolutely _adores_, so fuck everyone, he’s still going to belt it out, thank you very much.

As soon as he’s done, he’s peaceful and content and ready to go on with the day.

He steps out of the shower and into the fluffy bathrobe that Jamie bought for him around a month ago. The thing is giant, and getting it on is like receiving a warm hug from a very gentle and very soft bear. Probably does help that the thing is _Tom Ford_, Taron supposes. When Jamie first presented it to him, telling him it was all his, he remembers trying to protest, because it was just _ridiculous, James, I don’t need a two-grand bathrobe_, but Jamie had argued something about being entitled to spoil him whenever and however he liked, which had resulted into Taron rolling his eyes and kissing Jamie senseless. He does like being spoiled—because who doesn’t, really?—but most of all he loves the idea of having his _stuff_ around Jamie’s place. It had already kind of started some weeks prior, when he’d left a toothbrush there—but an item of clothing was a whole ‘nother thing.

Walking back into the bedroom, Taron finds himself regretting the fact that he’s not made the point to leave some actual everyday clothes at Jamie’s flat. Especially today, really, since he clearly ended up spending the night in Jamie’s bed—which was extremely predictable, mind—yet he didn’t think to pack an overnight bag, yesterday. Jamie’s used to this happening, though, as demonstrated by the set of light grey and white loungewear that is neatly set out on the bed, completely at Taron’s disposal.

The clothes are simple but gorgeous—a pair of impossibly soft trackies, a tight-fitting white T-shirt, some fuzzy socks, and a cashmere cardigan to complete the look. The clothes smell like Jamie, and Taron feels hugged once again, and it’s wonderful. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on Jamie’s wardrobe door, and he can’t help but notice how stretched the bottoms are around his arse. He sighs and sulks slightly, but then immediately spares a thought for the fact that Jamie will definitely appreciate it—_the tighter, the better, darling_—which inevitably turns his frown upside down.

When he’s finally enveloped in the comfy clothes and Jamie’s familiar scent, he makes his way down the stairs and into the living room, where Jamie is waiting for him. He’s sitting on the couch, tapping about on his phone, and on the coffee table in front of him lie a huge blue box with a gold ribbon on top, and a smaller, fragile-looking package, wrapped in what looks like very expensive paper, decorated with notes and staves and keys and lyrics.

“Took you long enough, darling,” Jamie greets him, getting up and wrapping Taron in his arms. He pecks his lips, softly. “You do smell good, though, not gonna lie.”

“’Course I smell good,” Taron replies, bringing their foreheads together and looking deep into Jamie’s eyes. “I smell like _you_, don’t I?” he finishes, chuckling under his breath as his fingers entangle in the longer strands of Jamie’s hair. Jamie rolls his eyes in fake modesty, and he bites Taron’s nose, playfully.

“Wanna open some pressies, then, pet?” he asks, grinning. There’s a glint in his eyes, and Taron’s heart fills with love and anticipation.

“Hell yes,” he replies, kissing Jamie again. He then turns to look sideways at the two gifts that are sitting on the coffee table. “Which one first?”

“Big blue box,” Jamie says, confidently. “It’s a dumb old thing, but it had to be done.”

“Oh Jamie, please,” Taron says, grinning and rubbing his hands together to show his eagerness. He circles the coffee table in order to sit on the couch and have easier access to the box. “If it comes from you, it’s never dumb. It’ll be perfect, I’m sure. Besides, you didn’t even need to get me anything, my love.”

“But of course I did, silly man,” Jamie replies, coyly running a hand through his hair. “It’s your birthday! Go on, then. Open it.”

“Yessir,” Taron replies, as he unceremoniously tears at the wrapping paper and pops the lid off the box. Inside, he discovers a whole panoply of bath, shower, body and home products, lying over strands and strands of light blue tissue paper. He recognises one of them—the damned shower gel that has haunted his dreams for months on end—and he realises that the rest of the products come from the same line and that they must smell exactly like it, and that he could potentially turn himself and his entire flat into a microcosm of eucalyptus and rosemary delight, and that he loves Jamie so very fucking much for remembering he’d asked for this, months ago, and that Jamie _definitely_ deserves another kiss. Immediately.

“C’mere, you absolute _dream_ of a man,” he says, waving his hand, inviting Jamie to sit beside him. As soon as Jamie’s on the couch, Taron’s lips find his, clicking together like perfect puzzle pieces, and he utters _thank you thank you thank you_ in-between smooches. When they part, Jamie chuckles lightly and strokes Taron’s cheek with his thumb, holding him affectionately in place.

“Maybe that’ll stop you from always stealing my stuff, huh?” he says, teasingly, lifting Taron’s chin up with two fingers to look for his lips once again. He finds them. Taron rolls his eyes.

“As if, Jamie Bell. As if.”

Jamie lifts his shoulders in defeat and smiles, sweetly. Then, his gaze shifts to the second package on the coffee table, and his expression seems to shift slightly.

“Wanna open the next one, then, sunshine?” Jamie asks, sounding a tad anxious, all of a sudden.

“Sheet music wrapping paper, eh? I’m stupidly excited about this one.”

Taron somehow feels like he should be less animalistic with this second present. It rarely occurs to him, but as soon as he picks the package up, he realises that the wrapping is every bit as heavy duty as he’d anticipated, and that a lot of work has gone into wrapping this up. Plus, the paper is so goddamned _pretty_, and he’d hate to mercilessly rip it to shreds—so he meticulously peels the tape off the neatly folded corners and he unwraps the gift with the utmost care.

What he ends up holding in his hands makes him instantly well up. It’s a fairly heavy wooden frame. The wood—probably cherry, judging by the deep, rich colour of it—is polished and beautiful, and its corners are decorated in the most delicate engravings of musical notes. In the centre of it, beneath the glass, is a yellowing sheet of paper, on which words are scribbled, in a _very familiar_ handwriting. Taron knows each and every one of those words, but he still takes the time to read them through, as tears start falling down his face. When he gets to the two signatures at the bottom, he turns to face Jamie, who’s quite obviously been waiting for his reaction.

“It’s…” Jamie starts, but then the words seem to die in his throat. There’s no real need for words, though—his eyes are deep and gorgeous, and they’re saying it all.

“…the original?” Taron completes, fairly certain he’s accurately reading Jamie’s mind.

“Uh-huh,” Jamie nods, wiping a tear off Taron’s face with the back of his hand. “I thought you might like it. It always was your favourite, after all.”

“Oh, thought I ‘might like’ the original draft of the lyrics to _Your Song_, handwritten by Bernie and signed by both him and Elton, did you?” Taron says, grinning at the sudden sass seeping out of his mouth as he’s still quietly crying through it all. “Fuck me, Jamie. How are you even _real_, love? This is… I have no words. This is _too much_.”

“Nothing’s too much for the sunshine of my life,” Jamie says, boldly, as he gently grabs the frame from Taron’s hands and he points at something on it. “There’s egg on it, and everything,” he says, now grinning like a maniac, “For real, though.” He knows he’s scored, and his confidence is back in full blast. Damn, how Taron loves this man.

“I love you so _fucking_ much, Jamie.”

“I love you too, pet. You deserve the world, really. This was the least I could do.”

Taron takes the frame from Jamie’s hands and he delicately rests it on the coffee table, before pressing his lips to Jamie’s once again and kissing him deeply and hungrily, trying to convey all that he’s momentarily unable to say with his actual words.

“Least you could do? You’re absolutely _insane_, Jamie,” Taron says, smiling against the skin of Jamie’s cheek, feeling the light prickle of stubble against his lips. “How did you even pull this one off?”

“Being mates with Bernie sure has its perks, darling,” Jamie says, gasping lightly as Taron nibbles at his jawline. “Not allowed to say anything more, I’m afraid.”

“I _will_ coax it out of you, one day—be sure of that, dancing boy,” Taron says, confidently, planting a soft kiss on the spot he just bit and then disentangling himself from the hug. He then goes back to admiring the framed lyrics, not quite believing his eyes just yet. “Better think of a good place to put this, ‘adn’t I?” His inner self suggests a _vault_, since the thing is probably worth a goddamned fortune, but he knows himself well enough to assume he’ll want to display this as one of his most prized possessions. He makes a mental note to insure this piece, too, alongside Elton’s diamond earring that he’s still somehow wearing on the daily, like it’s not a big fucking deal.

Jamie clears his throat. Taron snaps out of his musings, and he turns back to face him. “Speaking of, darling…” Jamie starts, sounding slightly insecure once again.

“What is it, my love?” he asks, sweetly.

“I’ve actually got one last thing for you. Been wondering for a while whether it’s appropriate, if maybe it’s too much, too soon... I’d decided it was, actually. But then, this morning I saw you sleep in my bed—and you were so beautiful and peaceful and you looked like you belonged there, and… well, I want to be able to see you like that every single damn day of my life, if I can. So, here, have these.” Jamie finishes his speech and he picks something up from behind a cushion.

He ends up dangling a bunch of _keys_ in front of Taron’s eyes. The keychain he’s holding between his fingers is a plushie version of the Welsh dragon, bright red and breathing fire. “These are yours, T. This place is way too big and, whenever you leave, it’s way too empty,” Jamie says, matter-of-factly. “Oh, and before you say anything—I’m not asking you to move all your stuff in and get rid of your schmanzy Chelsea flat, of course,” Jamie says, softly, never breaking eye contact with Taron. “But you _should_ feel free to leave things here, and pop in whenever you want. I guess what I’m trying to say is… you’re the man of my dreams, and I love you more than you’ll ever know. Whenever I’m with you, I feel like I’m home. _You_’re my home, Taron. And this,” he gestures around himself, “you should consider it as your home, too,” he finishes, breathlessly. Then, he makes a perplexed expression. “God, did _any_ of that even make sense?”

Aaaand here Taron goes again. Fuck, is Jamie on a mission to turn him into a fountain, this fine morning of his twenty-ninth birthday?

“Oh, _Jamie_,” he says, witnessing his voice breaking irreparably as he grabs a hold of the keys, and turns them over delicately in his hands. The dragon plushie seems to smirk up at him, despite the orange and red flames that are coming out of its mouth. “I—I don’t know what to say. You’re… God, I love you,” he says, resting a palm over Jamie’s right cheek and pulling him in for another kiss. “Thank you for these. I love this place and I love _you_, you big ball of sap,” he continues, as he starts pressing light pecks all over Jamie’s face. “Of course I’ll be ‘round more. Watch me park my butt on this couch and play _Call of Duty_ for days on end, or steal into your bed at 2 A.M when you least expect me to. Might even have to clear a drawer or two out for me,” he adds, as smugly as he can muster while he’s still half-sobbing. “Actually, fuck that. I have a lot of clothes, and they need to _breathe_. I think your big closet should do.”

Jamie chuckles as he turns his face to meet Taron’s mouth for the umpteenth time this morning. It’s deep and loving, and it tastes slightly salty on the account of Taron’s tear-stained lips—and it’s _perfect_.

“Knew it,” Jamie murmurs, tugging on Taron’s lower lip with his teeth. “Give him an inch, and he’ll take a mile.”

Oh, dear. He always does this. And it’s _hilarious_.

“Better rephrase that, methinks, darling,” Taron says, bringing both hands on Jamie’s pecs and starting to move them lower and lower on his chest and abs, until they hover above his crotch. “More like _ten _inches, isn’t it?”

Jamie rolls his eyes, but he still presses into Taron’s touch. “You’re _impossible_, pet.”

“Already regretting giving me the keys to the kingdom, aren’t you, my love?”

“Never. It’s _your_ kingdom, pet. I’m merely a loyal subject.”

Taron inches a little closer to Jamie still. “_Mine forever more_,” he whispers, his lips lingering a few millimetres from Jamie’s. Jamie grins as he kisses him again, and Taron melts into him.

** _Part III - About as bashful as a tribal dance_ **

_Two hours later_

Taron breaks a piece of sourdough bread and soaks it into the salmon juices that are still in his plate. He brings the whole thing to his mouth, lets it work its magic against his tastebuds, chews and swallows, and then sighs in contentment.

“Thank you, love, this was _delicious_,” he tells Jamie, who’s sitting across from him and currently biting down on his last piece of food. 

Jamie smiles without his teeth—gotta love a man who doesn’t talk with his mouth full—then he swallows, washes everything off with the rest of his glass of white, and finally speaks. “You’re welcome, pet. This was really not a big deal, you know.”

“You know how much of a slut I am for salmon, James. It really was,” Taron points out, reaching a hand out on the table—an invitation for Jamie to cover it with his.

Jamie fulfills the silent request and grins back at him. “I’m lucky you’re so easy to please, my darling. Didn’t get that lucky last time round,” Jamie says, rolling his eyes, sardonically.

“Of course you’re lucky, you’re with me,” Taron replies, matter of factly, revelling in the feeling of Jamie’s fingers caressing the back of his hand.

“Modest as ever, sunshine,” Jamie replies, shaking his head. Taron winks at him, then pouts his lips in an air-kiss.

Taron’s eyes then lose their focus on Jamie’s head, and settle onto the clock that is directly behind the man’s head.

1:50 P.M.

For God’s sake, it’s so late. Richard will be here in just ten minutes—he’s _never _late, and he’s certainly not going to pick up the bad habit on the day of Taron’s birthday, after they haven’t seen each other in more than a week.

Right, then. Time to put his plan into action.

“Fuck, Jamie, look at the time,” Taron exclaims, pointing at the clock with his free hand. “I need to get ready, Richard’s coming at 2.”

He swears he can feel Jamie’s fingers going a tad rigid on his hand, for a second—but his expression is soft and understanding. “Of course, sweet’eart. I’ll clean up here, don’t worry. Bugger off, go make yourself pretty.”

Taron makes an outraged expression. “I _am_ pretty already, thank you very much.”

“Oh, so you’re not going to take absolutely _ages_ in the bathroom, steal all my clothes and toiletries, and end up being tragically late, are you? My bad, pet, must have the wrong boyfriend in mind, then.”

“_Very_ funny, _Andrew_,” Taron says, getting up and circling the table. He takes Jamie’s head in his hands and plants a loud smooch on his lips. “Absolutely rude,” he says, firmly, before kissing him again. His eyes remain open, though, and they shoot towards the clock for the second time in minutes.

1:51 P.M., and the seconds hand is already ticking its way towards 1:52. _Late, late, late_.

Taron goes back to looking at Jamie, and he finds him smiling up, looking playful and absolutely smitten. “You’re rude, but you’re also right. Better go. I love you.” Another kiss, and he saunters away towards the stairs that lead up to the bedroom.

He rummages inside one of Jamie’s bedside table drawers, where he hid something last night, in anticipation for this exact moment. When his fingers close around the glass butt plug he’s got stashed in there, a thrill of anticipation runs through his whole body. Jamie and Richard have _no idea_ he’s doing this, and they’re potentially going to discover this _together_, and… Fuck, he’s getting ahead of himself, isn’t he?

He picks up some lube and he goes into the bathroom, carefully closes the door behind him, and takes his slacks and underwear off in one single pull. He slicks the plug up a teeny bit, and he admires it glistening in the white light of the vanity mirror. It’s _pretty_, and it’s going to look so _good_ from Jamie and Richard’s perspective, and… He’s just done it again. _Fuck_.

Taron closes his eyes and sighs in yearning as he widens his legs and squats lightly, angling himself correctly. He then starts pushing the thing in, delicately, tentatively, and he’s only half surprised at the lack of resistance that his body is putting up. The plug is well lubricated, plus his muscles are relaxed and still revelling in the aftermath of mind-boggling sex with one of the most _gifted_ men he’s ever been with, so it’s a _breeze_ to get it all the way inside himself. There’s a single moment when the slightly pointy end of the plug caresses his prostate for a split-second, and he can’t help himself from humming out in pleasure. 

He wiggles the plug around to make sure it’s secure and, as soon as he’s completely satisfied, he pulls his bottoms back on.

He looks at his watch and notices with horror that, bloody hell, it’s 2 already. He needs to text Richard that he’s going to be late, but his phone is nowhere to be seen. Moreover, he’s not _dressed_ for an outing with Richard Madden, and he needs to _smell_ good, too, and that takes _time_, goddamnit. Ah, this is a catastrophe. He so wishes he was one of those people who always arrive five minutes early to everything. (He tried it. Twice. Didn’t work out for him. Too much waiting around for latecomers. Much prefer to be the one everyone has to wait for, thank you very much.)

Despite all this, though, as he washes his hands right after his mission is accomplished, he can’t help but look at himself in the mirror, feeling _naughty_ and elated—barely containing his excitement for the evening to come.

Can’t _fucking_ wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for the first part comes from my favourite Bernie lyrics about slow sex. Thank you, Elton John, for the gift of _Mellow_. The second title is a flashback to chapter 6 and Jamie and Taron’s discussion over The Beatles’ _When I’m Sixty-Four_, coupled with the obligatory trip down _Your Song_ memory lane. Last but not least, Part III is an Arctic Monkeys song called _Dangerous Animals_. It went with the mood, plus you know Alex always creeps his way into my work.
> 
> Alright, so I feel like you should know that the tattoos are definitely a real thing. Here, you can see the [chest tattoo](http://topnudemalecelebs.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/Jamie-Bell_topnudemalecelebs_com-1.jpg) (which says 7.29.13, Jack’s birthday) and the [bicep tattoo](https://i.pinimg.com/474x/15/34/af/1534af8787a67ce16860050bf6878ec5.jpg) (this last one has since been covered up—it’s his ex’s initial in the pic you see here, and now it’s a sort of pin-up girl/siren type of design, but I can’t find it to save my life).
> 
> The moment when Taron says “I want your cock” is 100% borrowed from Jamie’s spell on _Nymphomaniac_, by the way—which is a fucking weird but genius movie. Absolutely not for everybody, but in case you were curious about Jamie playing a sadist, here is a [taste](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KE9m6PEKl9c) of it. 
> 
> Also, yes of course Jamie gave Taron the original lyrics to _their_ song—lucky for him it happens to be the best love song ever written, so it was a walk in the park to impress the birthday boy, really. The house keys were a late addition, but I’m glad I threw them in there. These men deserve to be together, always.
> 
> Last but certainly not least, the plug. Uh-huh. It happened—and it’s happening still. Not going to say anything more about this, because I feel like I will get carried away and spoil it for you, but let’s just say Taron is naughty and we love it.
> 
> Tune in next week to see Overcompensating Boyfriend Madden definitely splashing a big chunk the Paramount cash and trying to emulate the lush life that his original sugar daddies gave him a couple years back.
> 
> I’m going to make you suffer for a little while longer, but I promise we’re getting there—and I promise it’s worth it.
> 
> In the meantime, have a good one.
> 
> Love,
> 
> C xx


	16. 16. Richard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard takes Taron and his Amex Centurion for a spin. 
> 
> Gifts are given.
> 
> Questions are asked.
> 
> Fast cars are driven way too fast.
> 
> In short—tension is really, _really_ high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning everyone, and happy Tuesday!
> 
> Wow, some days I look at the word count on this mammoth work and I truly cannot believe my eyes. I have been writing this for more than four months, now, and I can’t fathom not posting on a Tuesday anymore—but hey, you get this and then two more, and then it’s _over_. Can you imagine? Because I definitely can’t.
> 
> Anyways. Pointless ramblings aside, let me launch into more ramblings—but very relevant ones, this time.
> 
> Golden Boy got a Golden Globe nomination, yesterday, and I’ve been revelling in pride ever since. Both boyfriends showed support and love, but I must say that Jamie is definitely the one who takes the cake, [this time](https://twitter.com/1jamiebell/status/1204116111601491968?s=21). I love them so much, and I’m so goddamn happy Taron is getting the recognition he deserves.
> 
> Right. Now I’m definitely done rambling, so let’s get on with our story, shall we?
> 
> Many thanks to [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) for a great beta, for pointing out all the literal translations from my native language into English that simply do not make any sense, and for somehow indulging the ode to rich privilege and capitalism that is the chapter you’re about to read.
> 
> See you very soon—oh, believe me, you’ll want a word at the end of this.

** _Part I – Climb into our own private bubble, let’s get into all kinds of trouble_ **

_Saturday, November 10th — Taron’s birthday, early afternoon_

Richard parks on the side of the road, right in front of a sign that reminds him of the illegal nature of his stop.

It doesn’t matter, though, since he’s not planning on getting out of the car, nor on staying there for long. He just hopes his boyfriend will be on time for one _bloody_ day in his life and avoid him getting fined—a man can dream, right?

Except, of course, that’s not happening. He ends up sitting around and scrolling through Instagram for way too long, wishing he was in a better spot and could lose track of time.

Finally, when he gets sick of counting minutes and his watch reminds him of the time, he decides that it’s time to call the birthday boy up—since Taron is exactly twelve minutes late already, and Richard wants to see him so badly, and this is frankly getting ridiculous.

He picks his phone up again, presses on Taron’s contact, and hears the rings echo through the space around him—his phone’s still connected to the Martin’s Bluetooth audio system, since he hasn’t dared turn the car off completely for fear of having to dart off, James Bond style, to avoid the potential traffic officers sharking around Canary Wharf.

The fourth ring is interrupted halfway, and Richard’s so eager that he doesn’t even let him speak.

“Move it on over, princess. Get your pretty bum downstairs and in my car, won’t ye?”

“…’ello, Rich,” _Jamie_’s burr says back. Richard’s heart immediately starts pounding at a hundred miles an hour. He gulps on nothing but the dryness in his throat, and he feels blood rush to his face. “He’ll be right down. Just took him a long time to decide which clothes to steal from me, this time. I told him he’s late already,” Jamie adds, audibly raising his voice, “but he insisted on brushing his teeth and take a bath in my cologne, apparently. God, T,” he says, huffing dramatically. “You smell like the entire Debenhams grooming counter, _darling_.”

Richard shivers at the stressed pet name—which is obviously meant for Taron, but which still hits him square in the gut all the same. He hears scrambling, an uttered _never said you could answer my phone, arsehole_, a firm and playful _I do what I want, sunshine_ back, and then the distinct noise of lips smacking. Then, finally, Taron’s voice properly chimes through Richard’s speakers.

“Sorry ‘bout that, Dickie,” he says, chuckling under his breath. “I’ll be right with you, my love.”

“You better, Duckie,” Richard says, grinning, a little more relaxed, as he manages to go over the Jamie bump and slip back into the familiarity of his lovers’ banter with Taron.

“Which car should I look for, then?”

“Oh, love. Your favourite, of course.”

“Fuck yes,” Taron breathes, triumphantly. “See you later, love, just out on a date with James Bond!” Richard hears him cry out to Jamie, whom Richard swears he can hear say _have fun, and tell ‘im it’s my turn, next time_ back, before there’s the thud of a door closing behind Taron, and no more can be heard from Jamie.

“Hurry up, won’t ye? I’ve been wanting to pin you down and kiss you senseless for a whole _bloody_ week, Taron Egerton,” Richard says, feeling the familiar flutter of anticipation in his stomach as he speaks.

“And that’s going to happen in your car, in front of unsuspecting passers-by, isn’t it?” Taron teases, as the _ping_ of a lift goes off on the end of the line. “Alright, alright, I’m downstairs. Hold tight, lover. Where are you, by the way?”

“In a very red zone—right in front of Billingsgate Café,” Richard says, just realising how fucking close “Billingsgate” is to “Billingham”, and then subsequently wondering when exactly he’s become so goddamn obsessed with Jamie that he sees and hears him _everywhere_.

“Gotcha. Shall I run to you?”

“Least you could do after making me wait for fifteen minutes, methinks.”

“Then I need to put the phone down, don’t I? See you in a tick, handsome,” Taron says, before the line goes dead.

One short minute later, Taron comes into Richard’s field of vision. He’s wearing a dumb straw hat over an otherwise very fancy outfit that Richard has never seen on him before, and he’s running towards the car like the _Chariots of Fire_ theme is playing in the background, and he’s pulling a hilarious face, and Richard loves him so _fucking _much.

He beams at Taron through the glass, and he unlocks the car door before Taron has to knock on it, and then Taron is in his arms again, and he’s kissing him deeply and humming happily into his mouth for what feels like ten whole minutes.

Only when they part does Richard realise that Taron left the car door ajar, and that the whole damn makeout session has _definitely_ just been witnessed by the unsuspecting passers-by that Taron was talking about, only a few minutes ago—but he quickly concludes that he doesn’t give a flying toss, not really, because Taron’s finally with him once again, and it’s _his_ day, and he gets to do whatever the _hell_ he likes—and that paparazzi and nosy old women coming in and out of cafés are kindly invited to go fuck themselves.

“Happy birthday again, sweetcheeks,” Richard says, hovering on Taron’s lips. Taron mouths _sweetcheeks_ and gives him a quizzical look, but then grins broadly, thanks him, and goes back to kissing him.

As their lips connect again, Richard takes the opportunity to unceremoniously flick the straw hat away with his fingers to expose Taron’s newly shaved head, which he yet has to see in person. He looks _different_, but every bit as ravishing as he usually does. “This is… a _look_, darling,” he says, appreciatively, caressing his head. The short hair prickles his fingers in the most delicious way.

“Oh, shut it, I know how _awful_ it is. Jack and the boys would not stop going on about it.”

“I think you look great, my love,” Richard says, genuinely meaning it. “We need to get you a better hat, though, don’t we?”

“Left the Borsalino home, yesterday, for some reason. Felt like a straw hat kind of day. I was feeling summery, I s’pose?” Taron says, with a half-smile.

“In November, sweetheart? Sure, makes sense,” Richard teases, handing the hat back to him and grinning manically. Taron flips the bird at him, but then he pulls him back in for a kiss, tugging on the neck of his jumper.

That is the precise moment when Richard finally registers an only slightly unfamiliar scent filling his nostrils. Fuck, that must be… “Wow, darling, Jamie was right—you’re _swimming_ in Hermès. Fucking hell.”

“Hey, listen _Little Dick_,” Taron says, fixing the straw hat back on his head and raising an eyebrow at him. Richard’s face contracts in outrage. Taron is apparently not done. “I love that damn cologne. Might have gone a _tad_ too heavy, though, I’ll admit.”

“Ye _think_, Duckie?” Richard asks, as sardonically as he can muster. He then checks his rear-view mirror before making a U-turn—he seems to have accidentally driven in the wrong direction, which has just brought them closer to Jamie’s building—and he thinks it’s mainly because, “You smell like _him_, darling.” Richard feels his heart pound in his throat as he speaks the words, and Taron’s gaze on his left side gets _fiery_, all of a sudden.

“Oh, love,” Taron coos, grabbing Richard’s thigh and squeezing it, affectionately. “We could just go up right now, y’know. Jamie’s not doing anything all afternoon.”

_Fuck_, that’s tempting. They could just find a proper spot for the Martin, walk back to the building, take the rocket-fast elevator up to the penthouse floor, and…

No, that would be _mental_. Richard made plans, for God’s sake. It’s all scheduled, all been decided in advance, all arranged with Jamie. No sense in rushing anything, is there? They’re going to be back here in less than five hours, anyway. Enough time for Richard to decide how exactly he wants to go about this whole thing.

Alright. Breathe in, breathe out. Resume the alpha male composure. Go into overcompensating mode. He can do this.

“_Absolutely _not, pretty lad,” he says, firmly, letting his brogue loose as he changes gears from second to third, and he accelerates to match the speed of the rest of the vehicles on Aspen Way. “I need to shower you with gifts and fill you with tea and cake, first, _mo chrìdhe_.”

“Alright, I’m sold,” Taron declares, putting his hand on Richard’s on top of the gear stick. “Fill me _all the way up_, Prince Charming.”

Richard shakes his head and he smiles and bites down on his lower lip. His eyes spy the Thames on the side of his peripheral as they move closer to Central London, and his heart feels a little lighter.

** _Part II – Must be funny, in the rich man’s world / Who am I, darling to you?_ **

They park as close as they can to Oxford Circus and they get out into the crowded street, buzzing with Saturday shoppers and kind of already smelling like Christmas. The latter is just _ridiculous_, since it’s barely mid-November, but Taron’s already beaming away at the angels of Regent Street, and Richard witnesses his scepticism getting converted into enthusiasm in a matter of minutes.

“So, loverboy,” Taron’s saying, as they’re walking past the entrance to the tube and fully entering Regent Street. “Where are you taking me?”

Richard smiles to himself beneath his sunnies as he feels Taron hook an arm into his. “Not very far at all. Just to your left here, in fact, darling.”

They both stop in their tracks—Taron a little more abruptly than Richard, admittedly—in front of the lavish OMEGA boutique, with all its shiny watches glimmering at them from the window, their movements so masterful and precise that their ticking seems to match Richard’s heartbeats. Fuck, he loves these watches. And he loves Taron. And he’s getting Taron one of these watches—no matter how much…

“Oh, _fuck_, no,” Taron starts protesting, on cue. “Dickie, this is _madness_, you can’t just do things like this. You can’t get me a fucking OMEGA watch. It’s too much.”

“Honey,” Richard says, softly, a soothing hand coming to rest on Taron’s hip. “It’s your _birthday_. Of course I can. And of course I bloody _will_,” he says, in the tone of a man who won’t hear anything more about this.

Taron opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again. His face goes through a palette of diverse expressions, before settling on what could be read as content resignation.

“Fine. You’re a madman. But fine.”

Richard grins as he pushes the door to the shop open, and it’s like being in a play and finally getting to go out on stage—all the eyes are on them, and people are completely and utterly under their spell.

After half an hour of back-and-forth with the extremely helpful young man in the shop, who is _definitely _giving Richard a discreet eye the entire time, Taron settles on a Speedmaster Professional Moonwatch. He’s opted for steel on steel, which looks _stunning_ against his skin. The black of the quadrant also really stands out, and it makes for a sexy and manly complement to Taron’s already extremely elegant persona. It’s classic and modern and shiny and luxurious, and Richard is simply chuffed to bits about his boyfriend’s excellent taste.

As they walk out, he feels light. Not on the account of the five grand that just left his bank account—he won’t be missing that for even a second, since it just went toward treating his gorgeous man to a gorgeous gift—but because shopping, historically, was always something that helped relieve his anxiety. And today, when it’s all about Taron and there’s the added bonus of witnessing how happy Richard’s attentions are making him, it’s a hundred million times better than it usually is.

“I hope you know,” Richard whispers in Taron’s ear, as they stop at a pedestrian crossing to wait for the light to turn green and his hand finds Taron’s lower back, “that now you’re the proud owner of a damned Swiss watch you’re absolutely bloody forbidden from turning up late to anything in your life, _ever_,” he says, self-satisfied, looking down at Taron through his sunglasses.

Taron rolls his eyes and grins up at him. He tuts. “Oh, but of course. _Now_ I get it,” he says, going very Welsh on the _now_. “I believe this is called a poisoned gift, Richard,” he replies, and his voice goes very low and serious, the way it sometimes does in interviews. Richard loves it when it does that. “But definitely message received. Thank you, my love. It’s beautiful.”

The beeping sound of the traffic lights warns them it’s time to move, and they start walking together, close, Richard’s hand possessively gripping the side of Taron’s hip. “You’re welcome, darling. You know I won’t settle for anything but the best for you.”

They walk past the Apple store and several other fancy boutiques before Richard steers them into a less populated alley, away from the chatter and the riffraff of Regent Street, and he goes on bantering about Taron’s terrible habit of always being late to everything, getting him distracted and possibly a little annoyed—and that’s all on purpose, of course. Anything to avoid him paying attention to the route he’s choosing.

Which is why Taron is completely oblivious of the fact that, when Richard suddenly stops walking with the pretext of having to urgently check his phone, they’re standing in the middle of Savile Row, right in front of the Huntsman & Sons shop.

“Sorry, love, just need to…” he says, raising a finger and tapping away on his phone in his other hand, not really doing anything in particular.

Taron scoffs, fake-annoyed. “Is it Jamie aga—oh, fuck, Dickie. You…”

“What is it, Duckie?” Richard says, grinning down at his phone and still avoiding eye contact.

“Fucking ‘ell, Richard Madden,” he breathes, dramatically putting a hand in front of his mouth. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Oh, I most certainly did. Not the shop, though. Way too many people lurking around, hoping you or Colin will turn up. We’re lucky you’re sporting the egghead, at the moment—that group of Chinese tourists who just snapped a picture of the storefront didn’t even look at you twice,” Richard says, smug. Very, very smooth. “We’re going down to the atelier, I booked it for a full hour. How did the line go? _Modern gentleman’s armour_? Let’s get you one.”

Richard completes his little speech by reaching an arm out and showing Taron the stairs going down to the Huntsman atelier. For a good ten seconds, Taron just looks at him. His mouth is half-open, his sunnies are a bit too low on his nose, and his posture is one of a man who cannot fucking believe his eyes or ears.

Then, a flash of something goes through his eyes, and he seems to recover from his shock.

“Alright. I will play this game, Dickie, because I can’t bloody believe how ridiculous this is and yet how fucking happy it’s making me. But on one condition, _darling_.”

Richard pushes his own sunnies down his nose, to mimic Taron’s current look and simultaneously meet his eyes over the frames. “Name it, Golden Boy.” Oh, he’s enjoying this.

“You get one as well, and I decide on _everything_.”

Yeah, Richard can definitely see where this is getting. “Playing your personal Ken doll, am I?”

Taron looks right and left, probably to check whether any bystanders are looking at them, then takes a step towards Richard and caresses his bicep, longingly. “It is my birthday, after all, isn’t it, gorgeous? I’m sure Dario will appreciate, too.”

“On first name terms with the fucking Head Cutter, are you, Duckie?”

“_You_’re the one who brought us here, you smug arse. Now suffer the consequences.”

“Very good, then,” Richard concedes. “Let’s get you into something double-breasted and pompous, shall we?”, he says, grabbing Taron’s hand and leading him away from the pavement and towards the top of the stairs. Taron smirks at him, wickedly.

“And let’s get _you_ into something tight-fitting and outrageous. My God, it’s not too early for the lights, after all—it definitely _is_ Christmas already.”

_One hour later_

Out of Huntsman and back to breathing the crisp early November air, it becomes very quickly and very painfully clear to Richard that he and Taron are most definitely tipsy. It turns out that Dario Carnera really bloody loves Taron to bits, and on top of offering precious insight and humming appreciatively at their choice of fabrics and patterns, he insisted on enabling them even further—by popping a bottle of 1998 Dom Pérignon P2 Brut and _insisting_ on them sharing it. This resulted into them wobbling slightly during the whole ritual of getting their elbows and crotches and everything else measured for their new, outrageously expensive suits, and had it been anywhere else Richard would have been mortified—but this man is clearly part of the Kingsman family, so it’s all good, really.

Floating in mid-air, several grand lighter still and high on the excellent vintage, Richard grabs Taron’s arm and drags him to the other side of the road to the Optimo store—_definitely need an upgrade from that straw hat, honey_—from which they emerge carrying four different boxes. Taron has a deep burgundy trilby on his head, and he’s grinning like a fool, and he doesn’t stop hugging Richard and bouncing around the whole way down the end of Savile Row and into Sackville Street, then back into the chaos of Piccadilly—until they get to Fortnum & Mason, plop down into some cosy armchairs, and finally take a breather.

“Gosh, that was _exhausting_,” Taron says, as he peers over the top of the high tea menu he’s holding with both his hands, eyeing Richard, who is sitting at an angle to his left. “Who knew that being spoiled rotten and getting to day-drink as I watch you being fitted for an obscenely perfect velour tux would take such a _toll_ on me?” he concludes, sighing dramatically.

“Oh _I_ knew it, darling. The amount of times…”

“Don’t tell me, don’t tell me,” Taron interrupts him, his smirk _knowing_, all of a sudden. “You’ve done this before, ‘aven’t you? Who was the lucky fella?”

“No idea what you’re on about, Duckie,” Richard says, sassily. He picks up his own menu and he peeks at it, as he continues. “What I meant to say is that I myself have been _treated_ to this kind of thing before, and that's why I know what you’re talking about. Which is the whole reason behind me bringing you here, right after. Ye need tea and cake to get back on yer feet—and to absorb the alcohol, which I’ll admit I hadn’t _really_ planned.”

Taron raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, gosh, Dickie. And you really want me to believe you’ve never done _anything_ with Jeremy, don’t you? If that is true—which it absolutely is _not_—please introduce me. He sounds like a dream of a sugar daddy.”

“I will be glad to pass on your message, you ridiculous man,” Richard says, shaking his head and feeling himself blush profusely thinking of his and Jeremy’s… early days. No-one knows about those—not even Simon. Better change the subject _immediately_, then. “Found anything to your liking in that menu you’ve been scanning for fifteen minutes, sweetheart?”

Taron nods frantically. “Yes, yes, right. _Filling me up_, I think you called it? Let’s do it, then. Earl Grey for me, darling. And lemon cakes. And scones, with raspberry jam. And whatever the hell else you fancy, you know I’ve got the biggest sweet tooth known to man.”

Richard orders, and in no time they’re faced with two porcelain teapots, cups, plates, and a matching dessert display containing everything Taron’s ordered—diet and restrictions be damned, they’re both done with filming for a good while, and they can finally let loose.

Shame that “letting loose” is possibly the furthest Richard can get from his present state. He’s been holding onto something for weeks, and if he doesn’t give it to Taron today, he might as well _never_ do it.

“Darling, I…” he starts, suddenly wondering whether his position is appropriate or whether he should be standing up instead, or whether they both should be, or whether he should be down on one knee—bottom line is he doesn’t know how the fuck a _proposal-which-is-not-a-proposal-because-there’s-three-of-us-and-it’s-complicated-but-we-still-love-each-other-so-what-the-hell_ is supposed to go, exactly. So why not just swing it, really? Sitting down in front of lemon cakes and tea at 5 P.M. in Fortnum & Mason is probably as good as it gets.

“What is it, my love?” Taron asks, picking up his cup to drink his tea.

Richard gulps, as he feels the weight and shape of the tiny box poke his chest from the inside pocket of his jacket. But he can’t afford to falter. Not now.

“Taron, I love you. I love you so much. You’re my everything, and I want to be with you for the rest of my days,” he declares, in a single breath.

He sees Taron turn to face him better as he rests his cup back on the saucer in front of him. He looks attentive and alert, and he doesn’t look like he’s about to interrupt him. So, on Richard goes.

“I’m the luckiest man alive to get to call you mine. And I know there’s a lot of stuff to figure out, still, but… I don’t know. It just felt right to give you this, now,” he declares, as he extracts the robin egg blue box from his pocket, and he rests it on the table, between them.

The look of Taron’s face is absolutely priceless. His gaze keeps going from the box to Richard and back again, and he looks confused and elated and giddy and extremely puzzled all at the same time. He’s visibly in shock, and he doesn’t know what to say, and the tiniest pang of doubt threatens to prickle Richard’s abnormally inflated confidence for a second—but he quickly swats it away like he would an annoying bug. His heart might be beating in his ears, sure, but he’s on a roll, and he’s certainly not stopping now.

“Before you say anything, this is not what you think it is. Open it, darling,” he says, encouragingly, pushing the box closer to Taron’s plate still. “I’ll explain everything as soon as you see it.”

Taron gives him a small smile, and he pulls on the white ribbon. He gets the midnight blue ring box out of the outer shell, and he gives Richard another quizzical look. “Not what I think it is?”

“As I said, _mo chrìdhe_, you really should open it. Please?”

Taron obeys. He opens the lid oh-so-delicately, and he stares at the content of the box for a while. “The shape… It’s a…”

“…promise ring, yes,” Richard says sweetly, not quite believing that he’s managing all this without turning into a ball of anxiety and weighing each word fifteen hundred times before saying it. It’s all flowing out extremely naturally, and he feels in control once again. “I know it’s way too early for anything else. And, like I said, there’s a lot of shit I have to work through. You know wha—_who_ I’m talking about, of course,” he offers, and Taron nods, as he looks from Richard to the narrow platinum band peeking out from the deep blue cushion inside the box. “I just wanted to make a statement. Tell you I’m committed to this. To _you_. No matter what. I’m in it for the long haul, and this is your daily reminder of how deeply I mean it.”

Richard observes attentively as Taron’s eyes inevitably fill with tears. He bites down on his lip and he holds the Tiffany box close to his heart, while stretching an arm out to take Richard’s hand on the side of the table.

“Oh, Richard,” he says, his voice breaking a little. “I love you so much. This is beautiful, and you are just… unreal. I don’t know what I did to deserve a man like you, but I sure as hell am not letting you go for anything in the world,” he finishes, as a few tears roll down his face. Richard squeezes his hand, as he feels himself getting emotional in turn. He should really hold it in, for the time being, though. This is not about him. “Will you put this on me?” Taron asks, with a tentative smile, resting the open box back on the table and turning it towards Richard—and that’s what breaks Richard completely.

“It will be my pleasure,” Richard says, involuntarily plunging into his best impression of Prince Kit to counter the sudden surge of tears that is clouding his vision. He’s imagined this moment so many times. It’s all falling into place, now, and it’s wonderful. “Giz yer hand, darling.”

Taron holds his right hand out, and Richard slips the delicate band onto his ring finger. It’s a perfect fit—and Richard can finally breathe normally and let a few tears escape the corners of his eyes. His face is now wet, but he can see clearly again, and what he sees is the face of the love of his life, and he’s _glowing_.

“Wow,” Taron says, turning his hand back and forth, admiring the cold, gorgeous glimmer of the platinum in the golden lights of the tearoom and looking absolutely over the moon. “My boyfriend just gave me bloody _Tiffany’s_. I think I’d better call me Mam up.”

“Yeah, I never properly asked her for your hand, I’m afraid. Or your stepdad. Can’t wait to have that conversation though. Maybe when I come visit in December?” Richard asks, only half-jokingly.

He’s feeling light and content again, and completely at peace for the first time in a long while. His hand goes back to holding Taron’s, and he just loses himself in the endless green of his lover’s eyes. “I promise I will make an honest man out of you, one day.”

“Not if I do it first. I love you, Scottish Romeo.”

“Please, darling. Haven’t been Romeo in a while, ‘ave I?”

“Oh, but Richard,” Taron says, knowingly, as he picks his cup back up and takes a sip of tea. All Richard can see is the platinum around his finger, and his heart roars with pride and love. “You don’t need to play him to be him. I think you just might be a natural, darling. _Jamie_ calls you that too, by the way,” he adds, going on to smile against the rim of his cup as he takes another sip.

Richard, who was about to take a bite of his scone, stops in mid-air. He’s glad Taron waited for the right moment to drop this bomb, or he could have possibly choked to death on British pastry—which, admittedly, would have been a reasonably posh way to go. Except no, this is absolutely not the time. Richard has plans for the rest of his life, thank you very much, and those mostly involve the man in front of him and the one whom he hasn’t seen in weeks and who is just momentarily trapped in his phone.

His phone. He hasn’t properly checked it for _hours_.

“D—does he, _noo_?” he asks, as he rests his scone back on the plate and reaches in his jean pocket to retrieve the hellish device. Taron hums in assent, and he smiles as he gestures a knowing _go on, then_ with his head.

The phone lights up as it recognises Richard’s face. He sees a message notification, and he feels an immediate rush of blood to his cheeks. Nervously, he taps on it.

(5:14 P.M.) **_I hope you’re not spoiling him too much._**

(5:15 P.M.) **_Just kidding—spoil away. He deserves it._**

(5:15 P.M.) **_Can’t wait to see you._**

The lion in Richard’s chest roars again—but this time it’s tension and unspoken desire and just a sprinkle of frustration. He glances at his watch.

5:47 P.M.

A little more than an hour to go. They’re almost done with tea, and the car is not far. How early is _too early_?

“T, d’you think we could…”

“…gobble the rest of these down and get our arses back to Canary Wharf?”

Richard nods. The mere mention of their destination activates all his synapses at once, and his crotch is suddenly on fire.

“Of course, love. Thought you’d never ask.”

** _Part III - You come walking through my door like the one that I've been waiting for_ **

“Darling, you’re speeding,” Taron observes, as Richard cruises past the back of the Savoy. They’re in a 20mph zone and Richard is going… well, he’s going 40. Alright, maybe Taron is right. Maybe it is time to cool off a tad, before they get pulled over and end up being _late_, rather than early. Nevermind the number of zeroes on the speeding ticket he’d get if he was actually flashed on fucking Victoria Embankment, of all places.

Bad idea, then. He hits the brakes, maybe a little too eagerly. “Sorry, love. Wee bit lost in my head.”

_Breathe, Richard_. Just fucking breathe.

He inhales deeply, then exhales. Nope, the overwhelming tingle going through him really doesn’t seem to want to leave him alone and let him drive in peace. Fuck.

“I probably know the answer to this, but… what are you thinking about?” Taron comes in again, and Richard feels one of his boyfriend’s hands close on top of his on the gear stick.

Richard keeps his eyes on the road as they approach Blackfriars Bridge, the glimmer of the lights on the South Bank reminding him how damn beautiful this city can be without even really trying, sometimes.

“That ring on your finger,” Richard deflects the question, only slightly. It’s not a lie. It’s just not _all_ he’s thinking about.

Taron squeezes his hand on the gear stick a little more firmly, and Richard feels the metal around his finger dig into one of his knuckles. That alone seems to send a wave of warmth and love throughout Richard’s whole body.

“Dickie, I… I can’t believe you did this. I remember the weeks and months I spent thinking of you after the first time I saw you, because I couldn’t get you out of my head. Heck, I find myself looking at you some days, and I can’t bloody believe my luck. The promise of you being mine forever is just… God, I love you, Richard Madden.”

Thankfully, Richard has to stop at a traffic light immediately after Taron is finished with his speech, because he needs to kiss him, and he needs to kiss him _now_. He does, and Taron melts, humming appreciatively as Richard strokes his cheek with his thumb the way he always does, and Richard relaxes into the skin-to-skin contact, inhaling Taron’s scent deeply.

Another epiphany hits him as he does that. Or maybe it’s more like an overwhelming _déjà vu_, actually, because now they’re back in the confined space of his car—where no smell contamination happens—he realises that Taron’s skin still carries that unmistakeable fragrance, _Un Jardin sur le Nil_, and it knocks the air out of his lungs.

The lights turn green, and he has to stop looking at Taron and fix his eyes back on the road. He’s looking at the City of London speed out of sight as a new surge of anxiety hits him, and he’s back on the rollercoaster, and—_fuck_, he has to say something, doesn’t he?

“I’m fucking scared, T,” he blurts. Simple. Honest. Dropping the act. Maybe for the first time?

“Oh, my love,” Taron says back, and he starts to caress Richard’s left arm, soothingly. “I understand you’re nervous, but let me tell you, darling—he was very straightforward to me, yesterday. Richard, he… Ah, maybe it’s for him to say, actually. All I can say for now is there’s really nothing to worry about. I swear it, Dickie. I will swear on me Mam’s life, if I have to. That’s how sure I am about this.”

“Fucking hell, you really are serious, aren’t you?” Richard says, in a single breath. And this time, seeing what Taron just told him, he really can’t stop the head of special effects in his mind’s eye from orchestrating a hyper realistic mental representation of the three of them naked in the same bed, and of Jamie pinning him down on the mattress.

_Fuck_. This might just be the reassurance he needed. Taron _knows_ something, and he’s implying that the evening will run extremely smoothly. Richard reckons it might be a good idea to get the fuck over himself for once and just believe the man. Just take the step into the void and hope that there actually is a parachute. There better be, otherwise this will be a huge fuc—_no, Richard, stop obsessing, we said_. “Alright. Alright, I believe you. Fuck, why can’t I go any _faster_ than this?”

They’re in the Limehouse Link Tunnel, by now, and the speed limit is now a whopping 30 mph. And there’s radar detectors _everywhere_.

“You _can_, Dickie,” Taron enables him, the hand on Richard’s arm coming further down, and ending up squeezing his quad. This is enticing, more than soothing, and somehow it’s perfect. “Put that foot down if you have to. My only request is that we get there in one piece, but the sooner the better, really. Go on, do it.”

“You’re naughty, and I _love_ it,” Richard says, grinning manically as he presses on the accelerator, more eager to fuck with traffic laws than he’s ever been in his life.

Let the speeding tickets come. He’ll be sitting in front of his mailbox waiting for them, if he has to. All he cares about right now is fucking _getting there_.

Get there they do—and very fast, too. The original ETA was forty-four minutes on account of the heavy Saturday afternoon traffic, but Richard’s Martin is parked a few blocks away from Jamie’s building in just under thirty minutes.

Richard doesn’t often break the rules—so when he does, everyone knows he means business. Taron has quickly caught on, it seems, because as they walk towards Jamie’s building he’s giving Richard the look of someone who’s just witnessed something _extraordinary_ unfold before his eyes.

“What is it, T?” Richard asks, squeezing his lover’s hand and feeling an embarrassing amount of adrenalin rush through his veins.

“Nothing I… I just don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to you than I am right now.”

“Not even back in Glasgow?” Richard offers, raising an eyebrow. He’s not expecting an affirmative answer—that would be ridiculous. Taron was a _mess_ in Glasgow.

“I’m vetoing that comparison right the fuck now. That wasn’t Richard Madden—that was a Highlands clansman taking advantage of a poor foreigner. No, this is _you_, Dickie. And you’re _dripping_ in sexual energy, right now, darling. Jamie won’t know what hit him.”

Fuck, Richard hopes to God that Taron’s right.

What is certain is that he feels his heart jump all the way to the top of his oesophagus as Taron punches in the code to open the entrance door to Jamie’s building.

What is even more certain is that, finally, after hours of yearning to touch each other properly, Richard and Taron are finally in a restricted and very private space. So it’s only natural that, as soon as the doors of the lift shut completely, Richard has to back Taron into one corner, take his head into both hands and kiss him the way he’s wanted to kiss him for a whole bloody week—just deep and intense and _loud_, hands running over every inch of his body, maybe lingering around his throat to only slightly take his breath away, and pressing his crotch into him, making him feel just how eager he is for the evening to properly start.

When the doors open again, they’re both panting. Richard’s senses are turned up to eleven, and he can practically hear their hearts beating in unison. When Taron grabs his hand to guide him towards Jamie’s door, he realises that it’s true, that blood _is_ being pumped at the exact same rhythm around both their bodies, and the connection is complete and intimate and lovely, and Richard is a little more convinced still that he’s finally ready to do this thing.

“I have the keys, but… Let’s just ring, this time. To let him know we’re here. He’s not expecting us for another twenty minutes—he probably still has his curlers in, the poor man.”

Richard’s chuckle dies in his throat, and he resolves that a simple nod will do the trick. He admires Taron’s ability to defuse the tension in almost every possible situation—but at the moment it seems impossible to laugh about anything, really.

Taron turns to face him, with a suddenly serious expression on his face.

“Dickie, look at me,” he tells him, grasping both of his shoulders in a tight, comforting grip. “It’ll all be alright. No, fuck that, actually. It’ll be _more_ than alright. I love you so much, and I promise you—this will be the most magical night of all our lives.”

He leans in closer and catches Richard’s lips in the most tender kiss they’ve shared in months. Richard smiles and nods in the kiss. “Let’s fucking do this, Golden Boy.”

Taron presses on the doorbell.

And now, they wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are by James Blunt, ABBA (of course), Paul McCartney, and Ben Howard. They all seemed extra appropriate.
> 
> In case you’re curious, this is [the watch](https://www.omegawatches.com/watch-omega-speedmaster-moonwatch-professional-chronograph-42-mm-31130423001005), and this is [the ring](https://www.international.tiffany.com/jewelry/rings/the-tiffany-setting-nesting-narrow-band-ring-GRP11074/).
> 
> The whole Huntsman & Sons shebang is possibly one of my favourite bits in here, so I hope you enjoyed it too. That shop looks truly fucking magical—and their suits are really fucking expensive. Nothing Richard Madden and his sugar daddies can’t handle, though, of course.
> 
> I had to incorporate some gratuitous London landscapes and Richard driving fast. I have no explanation for either of those things, other than the fact that thinking about both makes me very happy. 
> 
> Last, but definitely not least, the cliffhanger. Yes, I really fucking did that. And yes, I’m 99% you now hate my guts. Well, what can I say? I’d say I’m sorry, but then… I’d be lying.
> 
> Tune in next week for the *last* chapter of this crazy thing you’ve been reading for months on end.
> 
> Yes, you read that correctly. 
> 
> Yes, my heart is breaking too.
> 
> Won’t tell you who next week’s chapter is about, either. I’ll let you make up your own mind, and I hope I’ll still manage to surprise you.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me for all this time.
> 
> Love, 
> 
> C xx


	17. 17. Jamie, Taron, Richard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two pining idiots.
> 
> One greedy bastard.
> 
> An _unforgettable_ night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, old friends.
> 
> Here we are. You and me, on the last page.
> 
> *dries tears*
> 
> *clears throat*
> 
> I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure why I’m quoting an emotional bit off _Doctor Who_, when today is actually a day of celebration. I’m just sad this is all coming to an end, I guess.
> 
> Oh, well. Better get on with it, because you’re probably eager to read (in fact, I’d be surprised if anyone was actually reading this, at the moment). If you are—hello, I love you.
> 
> So many people to thank.
> 
> First of all, to the two people who have been here since the first draft of this long-ass mess of a chapter, [supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof) and [Egertonsend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egertonsend), thank you for hyping me up and believing in me every step of the way. 
> 
> To [drinkingstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkingstars/pseuds/drinkingstars), my fellow tinhatter and supporter of my life-long campaign to #GiveTaronTwoDicks—thank you for making me smile every single damn day, and for feeding me invaluable bits and bobs of information, imagery, and general food for thought. I hope you won’t be disappointed in the end result.
> 
> Last but not least, to my tireless beta reader, friend, and enabler—[phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose), thank you for your incredible work so far, but especially this week. My work would not be the way it is without your help. Always and forever grateful for you.
> 
> Bit of a disclaimer, before you dive headfirst into this: a good ninety percent of this chapter is smut. I’m aware it can get very heavy, very quickly if it’s not what you’re necessarily into—but I also feel like I had to write this much, to reward y’all for your incredible patience and tireless support throughout this excruciating journey. Plus, I definitely left you on what one of my lovely readers, [uconnhuskiesfan_wintershockship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uconnhuskiesfan_wintershockship/pseuds/uconnhuskiesfan_wintershockship), very appropriately called a _smuthanger_, last week—so, in the words of my favourite (and, I believe, the world’s only) Consulting Criminal—I. O. U.
> 
> Please, enjoy more than 16k words of whatever the _hell_ this is.
> 
> I’ll see you on the other side.
> 
> P.S.: almost forgot, a few gigantic warnings for, in no particular order (don’t read these if you’re not afraid of kinky sexual practices and you don’t want to be spoiled):  
\- Jamie and Richard’s already evident choking kink;  
\- overstimulation;  
\- edging;  
\- double penetration.
> 
> Right, now I think you’re probably ready. Let’s do this.

** _Jamie – ‘Cause when we kiss nothing feels the same, I could spend eternity inside your loving flame_ **

_Saturday, November 10th – Taron’s birthday, 7 P.M._

The doorbell rings just as Jamie is putting some more product in his hair.

He doesn’t even know why he’s doing it—the confident voice in his head, which has apparently decided to take the wheel tonight, tells him he looks good enough already. More than good, he looks _enticing_. He’s better rested than he’s been in months, he’s been moisturising, his wrinkles are somehow less apparent, plus he’s really fit, since he’s had time to work out the way he wants to, and when he wants to. On top of that, he’s wearing his best trousers (black, slim fit, _Armani_), a bespoke smart-casual shirt, and a blue-grey cashmere jumper, which he hopes to God really does bring out his eyes—because that’s what the sales assistant told him, and he really needs to bring out everything he can, tonight.

Jamie looks at himself in the mirror one last time, takes a deep breath, then rushes down the stairs to open the door. His heart is pounding as he turns the lock—behind that door are the two men whom have inhabited his thoughts obsessively for months on end, and he really thought he was ready for this, that he had scanned every possible scenario in his mind, and that he had all the answers… and yet, he’s never been so tense in his _life_. Please, God, let this go as planned?

He opens the door, and Taron and Richard are there, and they’re _magnificent_. Taron’s wearing the same clothes as before—Jamie’s—but a different hat, which Jamie suspects is new and almost certainly part of the loot from the shopping trip Richard took him on. He’s sporting the widest smile Jamie’s ever seen on him, and he looks almost like he’s glowing with anticipation. The stage fright is real, but Jamie knows very well he has to do his best not to let that seep through his behaviour. Better concentrate on…

Richard. The sight of him hits Jamie like a ton of bricks. He’s _gorgeous_, and he’s sharp, and he’s looking taller than usual, for some reason. He’s wearing a long coat, which he left unbuttoned, and a scarf, which is just hanging around his neck, not really protecting anything—his neck is exposed, and the shirt he has underneath his V-neck navy jumper is open, and some chest hair is peeking through, and it’s a whole lot to take that in at a single glance and try and _behave_, like he now fleetingly recalls telling _Richard_ he should do, when the temptation to press him against the door and show him a good time is poking away at every corner of his brain.

Jamie doesn’t even realise how long they’ve all been standing there, in the doorway, not saying anything, until Taron takes a step closer to him and catches his lips in a chaste but lingering kiss. “Good evening, love,” he says, in a whisper, still close to his mouth, his eyes glimmering in excitement.

Jamie grins back at him and pecks him again. “Good evening, birthday boy. Had a nice spree, then?”

“Very productive,” chimes in Richard, just as Taron winks at Jamie and walks past him, letting himself into the apartment properly.

And, like that, Jamie is simply left to his own devices, facing the man of his wet dreams and wondering how on _earth_ to greet him.

A handshake? Too formal.

A hug, then? Wouldn’t be the first time, but tonight it feels too intimate, and too close—no way in the universe Richard won’t feel how painfully _happy_ Jamie is to see him if they just fell into each other’s arms.

A…

Oh, well, nevermind. Richard’s taking it upon himself, it seems.

Fuck, is he _really _leaning in for a k… Oh, God, no—it’s _two_ kisses on the cheeks.

It’s fine.

It’s PG.

It’s _mates_ greeting each other.

Just mates, nothing else.

Mates.

Richard’s grabbing the side of Jamie’s neck and his thumb is grazing Jamie’s jawline as he delicately presses his lips to Jamie’s cheeks, and his beard is long and prickly, and he’s so _imposing_, effortlessly towering over Jamie, and he smells so _fucking_ good, and Jamie forgets how to breathe, and he has to steady himself to avoid just melting into a puddle of lust.

“Hello, James. It’s been too long.”

“Hey, Rich. It really has, hasn’t it?” Jamie says back, as he inevitably loses himself in the deep blue of Richard’s eyes. He feels naked and vulnerable. Normally, this is not a place he likes to be in but, tonight, for some reason, it’s surprisingly okay. Must be that it’s Richard.

And then, immediately, another surge of animalistic want threatens to knock Jamie off his feet completely. They’re standing so close together, and they’re breathing each other’s air, and Richard looks like he’s going to move in any second now, and Jamie just wants to say _please do it, do it now_.

Luckily—or not really, Jamie can’t really decide at the moment—there’s clinking sounds coming from the kitchen, which snap the pair of them out of it completely. Taron’s voice comes in right after, calling out for them to join him. “Brought, what, six different types of tonic, didn’t we, love?” he’s saying, obviously to Richard. “Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

Richard rolls his eyes and chuckles nervously, as he takes a step back and says, “Better take care of the princess, eh?” and he’s low and gravelly and _fuck_ Jamie wants him on the nearest surface like, _yesterday_.

“I heard that, honey,” Taron calls out again, closer this time. As Jamie turns to look in the general direction where his voice is coming from, he’s surprised to see he’s back in the corridor that leads from the hallway to the kitchen, and he’s _smirking_ at them. “C’mon, get your arses over ‘ere. Someone make a man his birthday G&T?”

“Yes, darling,” Jamie and Richard say, almost at the same time. God, this is _weird_.

They start walking towards Taron, and Jamie feels the tip of Richard’s finger graze his left shoulder blade , and Jamie’s whole body feels like it’s been struck by lightning.

“Your coat, Dickie?” Taron asks, as they stop in front of the closet Jamie uses for outdoor clothes. He’s holding out his hand, and Richard immediately obliges. The Burberry is off his shoulders and on the hanger in no time, and Jamie’s heart involuntarily fills with pride. Taron’s gesture is simple, and it’s _natural_—and that’s the whole point. Taron’s _home_. He belongs here. Definitely a good idea to give him those keys.

“So, we all good here? Can I let you handle drinks? I’m _thirsty_,” he declares, planting a kiss on Richard’s lips, then moving on to kiss and bite Jamie’s. Fuck, the way he _tastes_. He’s definitely doing this on purpose. “I’ll be on the couch,” Taron says, winking at both of them, turning on his heels, and strolling towards the living room.

Alone with Richard again, Jamie’s heartbeat quickens a tad more still. He turns to look at him. He’s grinning.

“Kitchen, James?” he asks, gesturing on his right and his left alternatively, in search for an answer. The way he says _kitchen_… Fuck everything that’s sacred, Jamie is _dying_ over this man. “Let me take care of it?” 

Jamie points to their right. “Right through there, but... absolutely not. You’re my guest, remember? Plus, you don’t know where anything is,” he says, matter-of-factly, as he steps in front of Richard and starts _fussing_.

He opens the liquor cabinet and gets out two bottles—Watenshi gin for himself and Taron, and the Laphroaigh Scotch for Richard. The sight of the alcohol takes him back to his and Taron’s first night, and his heart is suddenly in his throat once again. He pushes it back down by starting to hum a tune he can’t quite put his finger on.

He feels Richard’s gaze on the back of his neck the whole time as he gets three glasses from another cupboard, ice and whisky stones from the freezer, and a jigger from his cutlery drawer. He arranges them all on the counter, neatly, and he’s just about to uncork the whisky when he feels a warm body delicately approach him from behind.

Richard’s breathing hard down Jamie’s neck, and his hands are hovering over Jamie’s hips, barely touching, and Jamie entirely loses track of what he was doing and of every single thought he’s been mulling around in his head, as lust floods him everywhere and irreversibly takes the reins. It’s screaming in Jamie’s ears, and it’s commanding that he… _yeah, like that_—he should take half a step back and let his back and arse adhere to Richard’s muscular figure _completely_, giving him permission to touch, explore, _anything_, barely believing that this is really finally fucking happening.

“Can I…” Richard starts, his lips dangerously close to the crook of Jamie’s neck. Jamie nods, unable to form words, and Richard he finally grips onto Jamie’s hips with both hands and he presses his crotch into Jamie’s lower back, and—_fuck_, he’s hard as a rock.

Jamie leans into him a little more, and a lustful moan inevitably escapes his throat when Richard’s lips finally come into contact with the skin of his neck, and they’re every bit as soft and plump as he imagined they would be, and it takes all of Jamie’s self-control not to start desperately grinding against him.

“…help you, James?” Richard asks, against his skin, deep and Scottish, acting as if Jamie was still in a state of mind that allows him to remember what the first part of the question was.

Alright, so it _is_ happening. They both want this. That much is plain as fucking day.

So Jamie feels justified when he spins around against Richard’s touch and somehow flips them, so now it’s _Richard_ who’s pressed into the corner, and they’re facing each other for the first time.

Jamie looks up at him, and he’s pleased to notice that there’s almost no blue left in those soul-searching eyes, pooled with deep black desire.

“Love some help with _this_, Richard…” he replies, smirking, confident, as he moves nearer still, pressing his hips into him with more purpose and making Richard feel how hard he is, too. Richard seems to momentarily lose it.

His hands, resting on Jamie’s chest, start pulling at his jumper to silently beg him to come closer, closer, closer, and his parted lips beg to be kissed and bitten, and Jamie’s going in, he’s doing it, he’s…

“What’s taking so long?” Taron’s best camp voice calls out. Playful. Nonchalant. _Demanding_. God, he’s infuriating.

Richard’s eyes widen, he raises an eyebrow and he shakes his head. “Can you believe this fucking diva?” he says, as he starts moving back in for the kiss.

Jamie is actually _grateful _for Taron’s perfect timing, though. In fact, he’s presently decided he really likes this game they’re playing, and he really enjoys seeing Richard coming undone before his eyes, and he reckons he wants more of this, and he wants it now. So, he lightly but firmly pushes him away and backs him up in the corner again, revelling in the gasp of surprise that escapes those perfect, plush lips he’s somehow still restraining himself from ravishing. He then grabs Richard’s wrists and pins them against the sides of the countertop that now frame his body, then he stands on his toes to move his face towards Richard’s again, stopping when he’s barely a few millimetres away and he can feel the heat radiating from his mouth.

“Someone better go entertain the birthday boy, eh?” he whispers, low, raspy, distinctly hearing his own accent seep through his speech. “Can I leave the drinks to you?” he asks, putting a little more pressure on Richard’s wrists and rutting his crotch against Richard’s again. He feels Richard’s erection against his, and for a second he thinks of dropping the act altogether and just getting the fuck on with it—but Richard looks so startled and vulnerable, like he’s hanging from Jamie’s every word, and it’s too good not to drag it out a little more.

“Of course,” Richard breathes, smiling coyly and twisting his wrists against Jamie’s hold. He’s playing too, now, and _fuck_ if this isn’t the most supercharged Jamie’s ever been in his life. “I’ll take care of everything. Go join him, I’ll be right over.”

He exhales for what feels like the first time in hours—still close to Richard’s mouth, still fighting the urge to thread his fingers into those gorgeous curls of his and feel those lips properly for the first time against his own—then he lets go of his wrists and takes a few steps back, looking at him. Richard’s never looked at him this way. Like he’s just waiting to be _devoured_.

Jamie simply has to turn away, or he’ll sure as hell do something rash—and he can’t afford it. He wants to savour every _second_ of this. As excruciating it is, he manages to step back, and start walking towards the living room and away from Richard. He can swear he just heard Richard whisper _fuck_ under his breath, and he feels a smug smirk appear on his face.

“’ello, love,” Taron’s bright smile greets him from the couch, on which he’s sitting not-so-elegantly, his legs spread wide and his back resting against the soft white leather. He looks like he’s begging to be kissed roughly—or maybe this is Jamie’s animal side reminding how fucking hard he is at the moment, and that Taron surely will appreciate feeling that against him.

Whatever it is, Jamie acts on it.

He sits next to Taron and he takes the new, expensive looking hat off him, scratching at his shaved head with his fingers as he brings their lips together in a desperate kiss. While he’s busy licking into Taron’s mouth, he manages to manoeuvre him so that he’s lying on the couch, and Jamie is on him, pinning his wrists down on either side of his face like he knows Taron loves—_like Richard probably would appreciate too_, says the voice in his head—and powerfully grinds down on him, making him feel his raging hard-on and hoping to reduce him to an incoherent, whiny mess.

He succeeds.

“Fuck, Jamie, what…” he starts, but Jamie attacks his mouth again and cuts him off. He really seems to want to talk, though, because he groans very loudly into the kiss, and he starts nibbling on Jamie’s lips to catch a breath—so Jamie lets him. “You’re so _hard_, love, Jesus. What _happened_ back there?” Taron asks, and he looks at Jamie like he knows all the secrets in the world, and he’s gorgeous and _maddening_. 

Jamie just wants to bite his neck and heighten the red and purple marks that are there already, the ones that remind him of what possibly was the most satisfying sex he’s _ever_ had.

“_Nothing_ happened, because you’re the King of Cockblock, tonight, _darling_,” Jamie says, moving down Taron’s body to put his plan into action. He bites into the soft flesh of Taron’s neck—he still smells of Jamie’s cologne—and he licks and sucks for a while, and Taron squirms and whimpers under his touch. “I think Richard might be going _insane_ because of you,” he breathes, hoarsely, against his skin.

“Oh, am I, _noo_?” Richard’s brogue comes out of nowhere, and Jamie hears the familiar tinkling of glass being rested on his marble coffee table immediately after.

Fuck. How long has he been here, and how much did he _hear_?

Taron grins wickedly against Jamie’s lips as he kisses him softly one last time, and then Jamie scrambles to a sitting position—and Richard is there, looking _perfect_, while Jamie knows he must be a right _mess_, on account of Taron’s wandering hands, that have been pulling on his hair and on his jumper and shirt in a desperate attempt to get him to take them off. For a moment, he panics. It kind of feels rude to have turned all his attention to Taron, when he knew Richard was just about to join them. He’s really not sure what the protocol here is, and he’s somehow scared shitless he's fucked it all up before it’s even begun.

The feeling lasts only a couple of seconds, though. He looks at Richard once again, and he can clearly see it in his eyes once again.

He’s hungry. Needy. _Desperate_.

“Thank you for these, Dickie,” Taron says, rising from the couch to grab his glass. He also picks up Richard’s, comments, “Whisky stones? _Fancy_,” and he hands it to Richard, then proceeding to straddle him on the portion of couch where he’s sitting. Jamie’s couch is L-shaped, and Taron must know Jamie’s staring from the other end, and he must be doing this deliberately—and Jamie thinks _he_ might be the one losing his fucking mind, after all, not Richard.

Nonetheless, he sits tight and watches Richard take a sip of his whisky, those luscious lips closing around the rim of the glass and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and like that he completely misses Taron chugging his drink—but he must have, because the glass he’s just discarded on the arm of the couch is full of nothing but ice cubes, now, and he’s grabbing Richard’s whisky glass and resting it beside his empty one.

Richard is looking up at Taron like he’s the eighth wonder of the world as his hands—his big, perfect hands—come up to scratch his lower back and snake down and down until they’re cupping Taron’s arse over his trousers, and _fuck_ that’s hot. Taron kisses Richard deeply and Jamie listens to them moaning into each other’s touch, and Taron starts clawing at the collar of Richard’s jumper, exposing more and more skin, and…

Jamie doesn’t quite know why, but he needs some fucking air.

Maybe he’s too aroused to think straight. Maybe he too, like Richard, is needy and starved for touch, even when he’s _just_ been kissing every inch of Taron. Or maybe—and Jamie suspects it might be this, actually—this whole thing happening tonight is really not as easy as he’s lead himself to believe, after all.

He stands up, picks his glass from the tray, downs the drink in a few, quick swigs (and that makes for the _second_ G&T-made-with-one-of-the-world’s-most-expensive-gins-gulped-in-half-a-heartbeat of the evening, he realises), rests it back down on the coffee table, and walks a few feet away from the couch.

He strolls right up to the full glass wall, breathing in and out, trying to steady himself, and failing miserably. This is all just… so much. Maybe he’s not _cool_ enough for this, after all. Not _alpha_ enough—whatever the fuck that means. He just feels his head is spinning, and the overwhelming sensation that everything’s slipping through his fingers momentarily threatens to make him lose it.

And that came from… what, exactly? Not like it’s the first time they’ve kissed in front of him, is it? But no, of course—this is not John and Elton, this is _Richard and Taron_. Big difference, indeed. Because Jamie is not playing, either. He’s not Bernie, he’s _Jamie_. He’s not an artsy, creative soul. He’s not a poet. He’s just a short, big-eared, cocky former child actor who somehow managed not to fuck his life up completely. That’s all he has to offer—himself. And now he’s absolutely sure he wants them both, that he _needs_ them both, and just watching them like this—embracing, closed in a tiny bubble of desire and love—is too hard, at the moment.

Doing his best impression of a man who’s amazed by the breathtaking view of the London skyline in the distance, Jamie just stands there for a while. He stares at the Thames and at all the tall buildings twinkling white and yellow and red and blue for what feels like a century—waiting for something, _anything_ to happen, he supposes.

And then, just as he’s starting to wonder whether Richard and Taron have gotten so lost in each other that they forgot about him altogether, just as he feels a familiar pang of _something_ hit him square in the chest, just as he’s starting to see everything in different shades of green all over again, that’s when he feels it again.

The impossible warmth on his back.

The arms, wrapping around his middle.

The hands, gently scratching at his chest and abs.

The lips, soft and wet in the crook of his neck, and the beard, prickling him and making him shiver.

The irrefutable proof of arousal pressed against him, just above his belt, practically digging a hole in the base of his spine.

That’s all it takes for Jamie to mentally kick himself in the head and resume his magical lustful journey into the land of Richard Madden.

Jamie’s right hand travels up of its own accord, and it ends up in Richard’s hair, and it pulls him in closer, allowing him to deepen the obscene kisses and bites he’s already hard at work on, and suddenly Richard is chuckling wickedly against his skin, as one of his hands moves down, down, down, until it reaches Jamie’s crotch and palms Jamie’s cock through his trousers and, _fucking hell_, Jamie thinks he might collapse on the spot.

“Why did you leave, silly?” he murmurs. The words vibrate on Jamie’s neck, and another wave of arousal hits him. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for _months_. _Please_, Jamie.”

Oh, God. Jamie is officially an idiot.

He doesn’t deserve to be in Richard’s arms and have him beg.

He doesn’t. Not really.

But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t admit he _is_ enjoying it a whole damn lot.

When he turns fully, when he _sees_ him, when he looks inside his eyes—those dark, deep, vulnerable, eyes, a mirror of Jamie’s soul—the enormity of what is about to happen finally catches up with him.

The intensity of their emotional connection.

The amount of times he wished he had the guts to ask him out for another session of beer, banter, and oversharing.

The number of lonely nights spent fantasising about doing precisely this.

Jamie tries desperately not to think about all these things and just try to focus on the present, as he takes Richard’s face in his hands and he finally, _finally _closes the distance between them.

His lips are on Richard’s, at long last, Richard’s arms are around Jamie, pulling him nearer, looking for more contact, more proximity, just _more_, and it’s all so… unreal. 

Even with Richard’s hands all over him, even when his scent is threatening to make Jamie lose his mind, even despite the delicious noises he’s making, even if Jamie can actually look at him, as he fleetingly opens and closes his eyes in-between kisses, even if Jamie’s tongue slipping into his mouth and he can finally taste him properly—even when all five of his senses are being tickled in unison, Jamie feels like he’s just in the middle of the most incredible lucid dream of his entire life.

** _Taron – But Golden Boy’s in bad shape / You’re making love to me in stereo_ **

Taron kneels on the couch and rests his head on his elbows, in complete fucking awe.

Richard and Jamie are coming together right before his eyes, and it’s the most mesmerising thing he’s ever seen. They’re kissing, touching each other everywhere, sighing in sweet relief and longing. Richard is clinging to Jamie, holding him close like he’s lost at sea and Jamie is a raft, like he’s his only hope to make it out alive.

It took so much to get here—months of tension, slight to moderate jealousy, back-and-forth flirting, self-doubt, texting, the fucking _sex tapes_—and now, right in this moment, looking at them, he quite simply cannot believe his luck.

He observes attentively, eager to catch every single detail. He feels kind of like a voyeur, spying on Jamie threatening to rip Richard’s clothes off him, and Richard laughing that wicked laugh that means trouble, the one that never fails to make Taron’s knees give way, and then Richard breaking the kiss to take his jumper off and discarding it somewhere behind him, where it lands softly on the hardwood floor. Meanwhile, Jamie gets rid of his own jumper, and he sends it flying in the same direction.

He also loves the way Jamie seems not to be able to decide what to do with Richard’s shirt—whether to undress him carefully, button by button, or to just rip at it and get it over with. Lucky for him, when Richard is aroused and he knows what he wants, he acts accordingly. He grabs at both sides of his shirt, which is already open enough to let Richard’s chest hair peek out—_delicious_, by the way—and he pulls on them. In a split-second, Richard’s shirt is ripped open. The noise of the buttons popping and flying everywhere hits Taron especially hard, because it’s just _so hot_ that Richard would even _think_ of ruining one of his precious Armani shirts in any circumstance_ ever_—so this must be an even bigger deal than Taron had understood from the get-go, and _fuck_ if that isn’t messing with his sanity.

Jamie hurries to touch every inch of Richard’s exposed torso, and his mouth follows suit, kissing and biting and licking in his hands’ wake, and Richard’s fingers tangle in Jamie’s hair, and they pull him closer, and then Jamie is suddenly fumbling with Richard’s fly, and… yeah, that’s it.

The point of no return. The precise moment Taron was waiting for.

He knows Jamie and Richard are too busy making out to notice him, so he takes advantage of the moment to get rid of his own top as he’s walking towards them—he’s way too hot already, plus it’s efficient, saves time. When he gets closer, he drops to his knees and he looks up at them, waiting for them to notice he’s there.

They do, immediately.

It only lasts a couple of seconds, but it’s quite a mystical experience. It’s like Taron just pressed _pause_ on the scene and froze them in space and time. Richard’s hands undoing the buttons of Jamie’s shirt stop abruptly. Jamie, who was biting at Richard’s jaw and breathing hard, also comes to a halt. Red, wet, parted lips still on Richard’s skin, the incarnation of sexual yearning—Jamie is just a _goddamn_ vision.

“Hello, boys,” Taron says, deliberately licking his lips as he reaches out to cup both Jamie and Richard’s still-clothed cocks with each hand.

Jamie opens his eyes in surprise, then closes them again, as he bucks his hips into Taron’s hand. Richard’s hand falls on Taron’s head, caressing it, loving and firm, while he, too, pushes himself forward to look for more. He’s just so malleable, tonight. So yearning. So… _loose_. So far from his dominant, always-in-control self. This is a Richard that Taron rarely gets to see. This Richard would usually ask to be pinned down or be choked when Taron's riding him, but he's never asked for more from him—or not _yet_, anyways. Taron knows how much he wants _that_ from Jamie, though, and the state that all that longing is reducing Richard to... fuck, Taron _loves_ it.

The shapes, the heat, the _stiffness_ he feels underneath his palms make him quiver in anticipation. Instinctively, he clenches around his plug—and he looks up, eager, smiling at the men he loves, revelling in the naughty secret he keeps buried inside him. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

Jamie grabs one side of Richard’s neck and buries his head in the other, laughing against his skin as he playfully bites on it. “Oh, don’t worry, pet,” he murmurs, as he licks a long strip from Richard’s collarbone up to his earlobe. Richard _shivers_ under Taron’s touch, and he groans in lust and frustration. “You’re golden. Been wondering when you’d join us, actually.”

Richard looks Taron directly in the eye for the first time, and Taron sees it—the black holes of his pupils eating away at the deep blue galaxies of his irises.

“Pretty, isn’t he?” he coos, continuing to caress Taron’s head with one hand and mindlessly tugging on Jamie’s shirt with the other. Taron’s heartbeat quickens, and he hears his breathing becoming more ragged.

“Hmm-hmm,” Jamie nods, looking fondly down at Taron. One of his hands joins Richard’s on Taron’s head, and their fingers kind of entwine as they stroke him, and they both look down at him like he’s the most wonderful thing that happened to them—and that gets Taron giddy and stupidly emotional. On the other hand, his painfully hard cock, the plug inside him, and the overall _mood_ are screaming at Taron that this is _not_ a time to get sappy—so he reckons he'd better get to work.

His hands are quick and effective on Jamie’s belt—he knows this one, it’s embarrassingly easy to undo, and he wonders whether Jamie might have chosen it on purpose. It doesn’t take long for him to decide that he knows the man well enough by now to know that’s most definitely the case.

Meanwhile, Richard’s not wearing a belt. He’s also in a very accommodating and eager mood, it seems, because he’s doing it all himself. Undoing the buttons of his black jeans with _one hand_—licking his lips and looking like a _goddamn_ pornstar while at it—and revealing, little by little, that he’s not wearing anything underneath.

A lion roars inside Taron’s chest at the realisation.

“Going commando in full Armani, are we, Richard?” he asks, looking up at him, trying to sound cheeky but really just feeling a rush of complete adoration for him.

Richard bites down on his lip, putting on his best innocent look. “You know me, darling. I aim to please.”

“Well, in that case,” Taron says, business-like, “_please me_, then.” The lion in him has suddenly decided it’s the right time to pounce. “Get that out and fuck my face. _Both_ of you.”

“Oh, fuck, Taron,” Jamie growls, the fingers on Taron’s head curling and scratching lightly. Taron can _see_ his cock twitch inside his boxers, and it’s a marvellous thing.

“After you, Jamie,” Taron hears Richard say, as he and Jamie lose themselves in each other’s eyes once again. Taron can almost see the sparks, fire and flames dance around both their heads as that happens. It’s _incredible_. “I’ve heard _wonders_,” Richard adds, his hand now close to Taron’s, coming down to cup Jamie’s cock through the fabric and coaxing a loud groan out of him. “I _feel_ wonders. Now, I want to _see_. Give him what he wants, love,” he whispers, his face impossibly close, lips bare millimetres from Jamie’s.

Jamie nods frantically, kisses him desperately, and pushes his trousers and boxers down in one single move. Taron is faced with the frankly glorious sight of Jamie’s cock, standing hard and proud and long and thick and _gorgeous_, making Taron’s mouth water.

He wraps a hand around it, drinking up the sensation of pulling down the foreskin and revealing the tip—dark, swollen, glistening with precum. He _has_ to close his lips around it.

Taron looks up at Jamie as he takes him deeper and deeper into his mouth, and he takes everything he can, until there’s no more space, until he’s struggling to breathe properly, until he feels it’s properly hitting the back of his throat. Jamie shudders at the sensation, pushing his hips into him and making him gag—rough, yes please, Taron _loves_ rough.

Jamie knows he does, but he loves him a _lot_ and he still can’t help but fussing, _sorry, pet, sorry_, as he pulls out a bit. The desire in his voice is palpable, though, so Taron immediately chases his cock with his mouth, getting him deep inside once again, moaning around his mouthful, floating in the sensation of pleasuring Jamie, and of Richard watching it all happen.

He sucks Jamie off slowly and meticulously, and the noises coming out of Jamie’s mouth are just so _beautiful_, and Richard is _kissing_ him again, finally undoing his shirt completely and revealing the perfect body that Taron had the pleasure to gush about only this morning—and, for a second, Taron feels like he might just not last long enough to go all the way. He’s just so irreparably turned on by the whole thing. The two men of his dreams are half-naked and moaning in each other’s mouths, and he’s sucking on one of their cocks and about to get started on the other. It’s just… a lot.

Before he can overthink it and feel the pressure too much, he hollows his cheeks with more purpose, sucking on Jamie’s cock in earnest—and Jamie doesn’t hold back anymore, shoving himself a little rougher inside Taron’s mouth, grabbing the back of his head and whispering obscenities against Richard’s lips. Composed, well-spoken, gentlemanly Jamie Bell, now completely unhinged, abandoning himself to the fires of his passion. It’s a remarkable sight—and a great fucking power trip, too. Taron’s _loving_ this.

Jamie is effectively fucking his face, now, but it doesn’t mean that Taron can’t multi-task. His eyes locked on Jamie’s, he lets his left hand move back towards Richard, he tugs at his jeans, and he manages to get them off. He looks from Jamie to Richard, then, and he sees it on him, too—the want and the need and the plea for touch, all painted against his dark, dilated pupils—and it’s spell-binding, and he loves Richard _so much_, and he needs to give him what he wants.

He closes his hand around Richard’s cock—scalding hot, hard as a fucking diamond—and he hears him groan in relief, and he feels him shudder under his touch.

“Fuck…” Richard breathes, pushing himself forward, fucking into Taron’s hand, clinging to Jamie’s head now buried into the crook of his neck.

“Give it to him, pet, c’mon,” Jamie says, hissing in pleasure as Taron lingers on the head of his cock with his lips and strokes his whole slick length at the same time.

When he slides off Jamie’s cock, he deliberately makes an obscene popping sound that makes Jamie groan, and even more blood pools into his own painful erection. He immediately moves on to lick on Richard’s tip, then. He’s tentative, feigning shy, holding back, teasing him into oblivion, enjoying the sensation of having what feels like the power of life and death on this strong, handsome Scottish miracle he gets to call his boyfriend. Richard writhes against him, his eyes falling shut and his hands tugging at Jamie’s hair in frustration, and Jamie laughs wickedly against Richard’s throat, where he’s leaving a more than apparent mark—until Taron decides to have mercy on him, and give him what he craves.

He establishes a purposeful rhythm on Richard, coupling tongue work with hands, getting him wet and even harder, and Richard tells him he’s a good boy, that he’s _taking it so well, love, fuck_, and Jamie agrees _out loud_, and that’s just impossibly hot, and Taron knows immediately when it’s time to try something he’s pictured in his head at least a thousand times before.

Sliding off Richard, he tugs at both the cocks in his hands, lightly, encouragingly, looking up at both of them in worship. Jamie’s head is resting on Richard’s shoulder, and Richard is pulling him in, and they’re practically wrapped in each other, and they’re close, _so_ close—but Taron needs them _closer_.

He opens his mouth wide, and he brings the tips of both cocks together on his tongue, and…

“Oh, _fuck_, T, what the f… _ugghhhh_…” Richard groans, grasping at Jamie’s neck, chest, abs, until his hand comes down to rest on Taron’s head. Taron hums happily against his mouthful as he feels Jamie’s hand on him too, caressing his short hair. Their fingers are light but demanding, and they melt into one as he takes them further into his mouth. He’s so elated, so satisfied, so in love, so unbelievably _full_—and he wants to try and take them deeper, make them slide against each other, give them a taste of what he hopes is coming. It’s difficult, but he does his best. He takes them both in, as deep as he can, and he allows himself to close his eyes, losing himself in the sensation.

“Perfect, darling, you’re _perfect_,” Jamie lets out, after a while. He’s breathing hard and looking like he’s about to _melt_. Taron knows what that means, and Jamie’s next words confirm it. “I’m… not gonna last, love…”

Taron feels it. He can _taste_ it, actually—drops of precum leaking into his mouth, salty, bitter, somehow _delicious_—and he immediately moves away. Jamie is the king of edging, after all. He won’t mind, would he?

“About enough of that, I reckon, huh?” Taron says, smiling up at them.

Jamie purrs as he strokes Taron behind his ear and centres himself, whereas Richard seems to be whimpering in frustration at the loss.

“Oh, Rich, is he not like this with you?” Jamie asks Richard, moving closer to bite on his earlobe.

Richard chuckles, as he rubs a thumb over Taron’s wet lips. Taron grinds his teeth together and tries to bite it—the lion has come out fully, and he’s ready to attack.

“Yes, he’s always been wicked but… Fuck, Taron, this is something else. This is filthy. And _unfair_. I was enjoying that a lot,” Richard points out, catching a sharp breath when Jamie bites him a bit harder.

“Ditto, sweetheart. That mouth…”

Taron feels the praise reach his cock in approximately no time at all, and he simply has to palm himself through his trousers to relieve the impossible arousal that is threatening to take control of his body.

On second thought, what the fuck—he can do whatever he likes. It’s his party, he’ll get naked if he wants to. So he does—he gets up, unzips himself, and shimmies away from his slacks entirely.

He stands there for a couple of seconds, naked and proud, enjoying the look of absolute _hunger_ in Jamie and Richard’s eyes, before he takes a step closer to them, feeling their bodies burn up on each side of him. He grabs them both by one of the lapels of their shirts, he tugs at each shirt in turn and loses himself in two very wet and breathy kisses. When he’s done and ready to speak up, he’s still pulling them close. “Bedroom, now,” he commands, firm but playful. “And I want you out of these clothes, _immediately_.”

Letting go of them and turning on his heels, he starts strutting towards the spiral staircase going up to Jamie’s bedroom, slowly but surely. He hears scrambling behind him—the sound of discarded shoes, a belt hitting the floor, fabric flying—until they get to the base of the stairs, and Taron shivers in anticipation.

He steps upwards, Jamie and Richard on tail, and he waits to receive the reaction he’s been waiting for, the one he’s been preparing to hear all day.

Perfectly on cue, he gets it—gasps, heavy breathing, an _oh, fuck, Taron_, and a _Jesus Christ_, too, and Taron enjoys the blasphemy _immensely_. He turns his head slightly around and is met by Jamie and Richard gawping at each other as they walk up the stairs behind him, and he feels very damn smug.

Entering Jamie’s bedroom and inhaling the smell of oud and frankincense coming from the fragrance sticks perched upon the chest of drawers is always a magical experience but, tonight, Taron can safely say that it feels _transcendental_. It feels like he’s stepping into somewhere so sexual, so enticing, so _manly_—he’s been feeling the anticipation in the air for a while, and now he can smell it, too.

He sits on the bed and immediately scoots upward, and the thrill that the plug inside him sends rushing throughout his whole body when his hips land back on the mattress is impossible to hide. He rests his head on the multitude of pillows, then very unapologetically widens his legs and starts to stroke himself, looking intensely at his two men.

Observing Richard towering over Jamie from behind and planting small, lingering kisses in the crook of his neck like he can’t help himself is such a beautiful sight that for a second he considers just letting them do their thing and watch, resuming his voyeur role from before—but no, that is definitely not what he’s got planned. He wants them both, and he wants them right now.

“Come get me, boys,” he says, cheekily, closing his eyes for a second to enjoy the result of a particularly satisfying stroke of his hand on his cock.

Jamie starts eagerly walking towards the bed, looking more aroused than Taron’s ever seen him before.

“Fuck me, Taron,” Jamie lets out, as soon as he’s kneeling on the bed and covering Taron’s body with his. “A _plug_. How long…”

“Oh, all afternoon, darling,” Taron replies, throwing his head back on the pillows underneath him to facilitate Jamie’s access to his neck. “Almost got busted while Dario was measuring my inseam, in fact,” he says to Richard, who’s just arrived on the bed too, and is settling on the other side of Taron’s body. God, he’s gorgeous. Taron could look at him for days on end, without interruption—and he’d kick himself for even so much as _blinking_. “Well, when I say _almost_… He pulled quite an eloquent face when he was done,” Taron says, fake-pensive, crowning the whole thing with a smile so innocent, he thinks a halo might pop out of nowhere and settle itself on his head.

Richard looks flabbergasted. “Goodness, Taron. When it’s time to be Eggsy again and ye get called back there, please hit me up. I want tae _be_ there,” he says, confidently, getting his face close to Taron’s and pouting his lips slightly, demanding a kiss. Taron obliges.

“Will do, love. Now can someone _please_…”

“Fuck you?” Jamie interrupts him, burying his head in the crook of Taron’s neck and biting him a little harder.

“My, you’re a quick one, Jamie Bell,” Taron says, appreciatively, tugging on Jamie’s hair to bring his head up and capture his lips in a longing kiss. “I’ve been waiting for this. Literally been preparing _all fucking day_.”

“Such a good boy, aren’t you, T?” Richard observes, crawling on the bed to position himself between Taron’s legs. He pushes on Taron’s hamstrings to make him bend his knees, and Taron feels his gaze on the plug inside him. “Fuck, look at you, love. So gorgeous, already open and ready for us,” he whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear, as he bends down to ghost his breath on Taron’s cock, then coming down and down and down to swirl his tongue around the base of the plug.

Taron squirms desperately, completely losing it. “God, yes, that…” he moans, closing his eyes and letting Jamie kiss him again. “More of that, please. Just—hold on,” he says, coming to a sitting position. Reshuffling is in order.

He gets on all fours, placing himself diagonally on the bed and pushing his bum out for Richard to do as he pleases with. As for Jamie, he’s in front of Taron, now, and he’s pumping a hand on his cock, extremely slowly, making Taron’s mouth water.

“Dickie, love,” Taron starts, hissing at the firm slap that Richard has just placed on his right buttock. “_Fuck_ yes… Do you… _oh, fuck fuck fuck_…” he’s interrupted again, by Richard’s hands pulling on his glutes to expose his hole better, and going back in with his tongue. He’s pressing on the base of the plug, and that is causing it to rub against his prostate, and… _God_, it’s so good. He has to finish his sentence, though, goddamnit. “D’you remember what you replied, the first time I told you about me and Jamie?”

Richard quits licking at him for a second, and Taron feels him smile and purr against the sensitive skin of his perineum. “Position seems perfect, dunnit? Would be a _crime_ not tae take advantage of it…” he murmurs, close, so fucking close—and Taron feels every single vibration, and they all go straight to his cock. “Go on, my darling—get that pretty mouth on him,” Richard says.

Fuck. The way he says _mouth_, like _mooth_, plus the bloody rolled R’s he scatters everywhere, it’s _so much_, and Taron is losing it. Plus, Richard’s tone seems to have switched—he’s _commanding_, all of a sudden, and… ah, yes, _finally_. Time for Taron to be ordered around a bit. Time to let these wonderful men use him, and time for them to satisfy his every need.

Taron arches his back as he nods, “Yes, Richard,” he says, obediently. He looks up at Jamie, whose icy grey gaze is piercing him as he caresses the extremely short hair on his head. Taron licks his lips, and he looks down at Jamie’s cock. “Give me that, stud,” he tells Jamie, parting his lips a bit more, eagerly.

Jamie groans as he pulls on his cock again, exposing the tip entirely, and with his hand he guides it towards Taron’s mouth. “Yes, pet. Open up for me.”

The head of it reaches Taron’s lips and he kisses it, adoringly, collecting all the moisture there, as his eyes meet Jamie’s again. That’s when he knows he has to take advantage of the last opportunity he’ll have to talk, before his mouth gets filled to the brim. “Please, Richard,” he implores, his gaze locked on Jamie’s eyes. “Please, fuck me.”

Richard bites on one of his cheeks and he _roars_ against his mouthful. Taron moans in pain and delight, and he momentarily closes his eyes, only to open them again as he allows Jamie to push himself properly into his mouth. He knows how weak Jamie is for eye contact when they do this. He wants to give him _everything_.

He takes Jamie deeper into his mouth and leans into him, as he feels Richard lick around his stretched hole a bit more, wiggling the plug around and making him squirm.

Jamie seems suddenly aware of what’s happening behind Taron, and his voice hits him—clear, loving, if not breaking just a tad. “Rich… ughh, fuck,” he interrupts himself, as Taron traces one of the protruding veins on his cock with his tongue. “Lube, left drawer,” he completes, breathlessly, caressing Taron’s head again and again.

Taron smiles as best as he can around him, and hollows his cheeks a bit more. “Yes, pet, that is… so _fucking_ good…” Jamie murmurs, closing his eyes and thrusting himself inside Taron’s mouth.

The sudden wet, slightly cold feeling against his hole makes Taron tingle. Richard keeps kissing around his most sensitive area, as he expertly works the lube in, moving the plug slowly and thoroughly in and out. Taron whines and whines during the whole thing, because the plug is hitting his prostate over and over—and Richard must _know_, the smug bastard, because he’s taking his sweet fucking time.

At some point, though, Taron can’t take anymore. He feels that he’s just going to come, untouched and virtually unfucked—it feels so _fucking_ good, but he has to speak up and stop this damn sweet torture.

He wraps a hand around the base of Jamie’s cock, then, and he slides it gently out of his mouth as he strokes it, slowly spreading spit everywhere. Jamie definitely doesn’t complain.

Taron turns his head a bit to look for Richard’s eyes. He finds them. They’re _wicked_.

“Richard Madden,” he says, collecting all the strength it takes to effectively enunciate every syllable. “Get that_ bloody _thing out already, and get your _cock_ in me. You’re _killing_ me.”

Richard laughs that low, gravelly laugh of his, his lips still against the skin of Taron’s left cheek, and Taron feels the vibrations again, and he hears Jamie join in as well—his abs contract rhythmically as his body shakes with the sound of his mirth. He can’t help but smile himself, at that. Apparently, being tortured a bit in the bedroom is funny, after all.

“Yes, darling, right away,” Richard replies, dutifully resuming his kissing action and finally, _finally_ tugging at the plug again. He doesn’t stop halfway and plunge it in again, this time—he pulls it out slowly, entirely, and the stretch is _so intense_ but also _incredible_, and Taron arches his back in sweet agony, closing his eyes and contracting every muscle of his face. He feels two of Jamie’s fingers move underneath his chin and lift it up, looking for that connection again. Taron opens his eyes, and sure enough—Jamie is looking down at him like he’s the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to him. “So good. So good for us, my love.”

Taron whimpers loudly—half because of the plug leaving his body entirely and leaving him momentarily _empty_, half because of the endless praise he’s receiving, tonight, which is something that never, ever fails to get him.

“Richard…” he whines, as he partially gains control of his wits and goes back to stroking Jamie—slowly, methodically, fondly.

The head of Richard’s cock—and then the _rest of it_—sinks into Taron in one swift, quick, calculated, _masterful_ move, that somehow completely takes him by surprise. He thought the plug was good, but of course, as usual, this is a hundred thousand times better. The hardness, the length, the shape, the curve, the _thickness_ of Richard’s cock inside him sends him on a one-way, lightning-fast trip to heaven, and he barely realises that his lips are wrapping around Jamie once again, taking him deeper than before, suffocating the loud groan just coaxed out of him by the toe-curling pleasure that is spreading around his whole body.

Taron is between the two men he loves and trusts the most in the world, and he’s so full, so satisfied, so _happy_… He feels feather-light, and that he’s been lulled, like the wind is going through him and making him float in the most perfect way.

Even the tears in his eyes—the silly, useless reflex that his body uses to compensate for his throat being repetitively hit by the tip of Jamie’s impossible length, and him insisting on his merry way all the same—taste sweet as honey, right now. A few get on his lips and into his mouth as he makes the conscious effort to tilt his head up as best as he can to look Jamie in the eyes again. 

Jamie wipes the rest away with his thumb. “I love you, Taron,” he murmurs, through shaky breaths. “I love you so much.”

Taron’s heart fills to the brim, and he allows himself to lose control completely.

Richard thrusts himself inside him incessantly, clawing at his shoulder blades and pulling on his shoulders to get deeper, and murmuring his own _I love you_s and dozens of other sweet obscenities under his breath. The rhythm he’s managed to establish is _just right_—not too slow, not too fast, not too gentle, not too hard—and Taron feels _everything_. How Richard rolls his hips, almost painstakingly, the way he knows will get his cock to hit exactly where Taron needs it most, is quite simply making him lose his mind.

At some point, long after Taron has abandoned the idea of keeping his eyes open, he feels one of Jamie’s hands entwine with Richard’s on top of his back, where Richard has been digging the tips of his fingers and scratching him up ever since he’s started fucking him—and that alone is apparently enough to wake him from the hazed, willingly submissive sexual torpor he’s allowed himself to slip into.

He remembers, now. He remembers what he needs. He wants it. So bad. He wants them both _inside _him at once. He wants to create a connection that hopefully will last forever.

Taron groans more loudly, then—loud enough, he hopes, for both Jamie and Richard to get the message—_slow down, please_. They do, and Taron opens his eyes again as he gently gets Jamie’s cock out of his mouth and he looks up at him through wet eyelashes. He bats them a couple of times, and the tears roll down his cheeks. Needless to say, Jamie thumbs them away immediately.

“What is it, pet? Did we hurt you?” Jamie asks, looking down at him and sounding genuinely worried. Richard stills, resting inside him and gently stroking his back.

“No, no, it’s _perfect_,” Taron says, croakily. “I just… I want you. _Both_.”

“We’re here, _mo chrìdhe_,” Richard murmurs bending over to plant a series of butterfly kisses on Taron’s spine. “We’re yours.”

The way Richard expresses this—that simple, natural, unrehearsed use of the plural—just makes Taron’s heart swell up even more.

“I love you,” he says, to both. “I… I want you inside me.”

Richard chuckles lightly. He rolls his hips forwards, slowly and discreetly, making Taron’s breath catch in his throat. Fuck, that was sneaky.

He can’t help but smile at Richard’s impossible cheek. “I meant—_together_,” he specifies, still feeling like he’s not expressing himself clearly enough.

The look on Jamie’s face tells him the exact opposite. “Oh,” he breathes. He then lifts his head up, looking towards Richard. “_Oh_,” he says again.

Taron _feels_ Richard harden inside him—it’s almost imperceptible, but it’s also unmistakeable. “Oh my _God_, T. Can you…”

“…take it?” Jamie completes, as he caresses Taron’s temple with one thumb.

Taron smiles up at him while he shifts forward a little, easing Richard’s cock out of him. He has to steady himself for a second, get use to the emptiness once again. He doesn’t really enjoy the emptiness.

“Yes, I can. I want it. I want _you_,” he repeats, coming to a kneeling position and twisting to the side to reach his arms out to touch both Richard and Jamie’s arms. “I _need_ you.”

He looks at Jamie, nods softly, and pulls him in for a kiss. He feels Richard shift closer to them on the bed, and he immediately turns towards him and kisses him too. He’s fierce with both, and he’s wanton. He’s still tingling from the frankly ridiculously good pounding he’s just gotten—but he needs Jamie and Richard to know he wants _more_.

Something seems to stir inside Jamie, then. He moves closer to Richard, grabs his jaw firmly, and he kisses him, deep and reassuring. Taron can see it very clearly, then—it’s one of those kisses that contains a million words. _I trust you_, it says. _We can do this_. When they part, it’s clear that Richard is sold.

“How…?” Richard asks, looking inquiringly at Taron.

Taron smirks triumphantly. “Lie down for me, darling,” he says, feeling his arousal mount once again, a roaring fire burning up in the pit of his stomach. “And then Jamie… from behind…”

Richard’s head lands on the pillows, and Taron immediately straddles him, lifting himself up on his knees. Richard closes one hand around Taron’s cock, making him hiss at the sudden and unexpected warmth. His grip is tight and comforting, pressing all the right buttons, and Taron mechanically bucks his hips into him, fucking his hand, as he grabs a hold of the perfect cock that was inside of him just minutes ago, and he sits back down on it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And, well, it really is.

The angle is different, and it’s so much _better_. Taron revels in the depth of Richard’s stare in his every bit as much as he enjoys the depth that the cock inside him is reaching, instantly finding his sweet spot.

“Fuck, _yes_,” he groans, wiggling his hips to look for feel more skin on his skin, to get him deeper and right where he needs him. Then, Richard thrusts upwards once more—and that’s Taron done for.

He all but collapses on top of Richard, crashing their lips together, as he feels Richard bend his knees and follow his movement, clicking them together again and making Taron arch his back and press against him.

Immediately after, as he’s kissing Richard, Taron realises that one of Jamie’s fingers is tentatively teasing around his stretched hole, looser than usual thanks to the wise preparation he’s put himself through, but definitely not loose enough to accommodate two cocks—not _yet_.

Jamie’s finger is slick and warm, and Taron wants it inside him. Richard stills immediately, and he starts kissing Taron’s temple, soft, tender. “Do it, J. _Please_…” Taron begs, hoarsely. Jamie ghosts his lips over the base of his spine, and he obliges.

It’s strange, at first. Not unpleasant in the slightest—the stretch is _terrific_, and Jamie’s touch is gentle and calculated as it ever is. It’s just, Taron supposes, that it feels a little… asymmetric. Also, he needs more.

He asks for more. Jamie _gives_ him more.

Richard caresses his face and kisses him throughout the whole thing, as he thrusts his cock in and out alongside Jamie’s fingers, ever so gently. Endless praise flows out of his mouth, and the confidence and the _love_ Taron feels from him are complete. Jamie chimes in too, of course, telling Taron how well he’s doing, how much he loves him—reassuring both him and Richard, telling them how _good_ he’s going to make this for the three of them.

“God, Taron, you’re _perfect_, love. How did we even get so lucky?” he murmurs, just as the third finger he’s got inside Taron reaches the delicious tipping point when discomfort is turned into pleasure.

_We_. Jamie said _we_. He’s talking to _Richard_.

“I’m ready,” Taron says. He’s never been convinced of anything more in his life.

Jamie kisses his back again. “You sure, pet?” he asks, against his skin. The North-Eastern twang in _sure_ somehow hits Taron square in the gut. The umpteenth surge of pure love fills his chest.

He lifts his head from where he’s been resting it, in the crook of Richard’s neck, and he turns slightly to meet Jamie’s gaze. “Fuck, I love you, Jamie,” he says, unable to help himself. Jamie beams at him, and he leans forward to caress his cheek. Then, Taron realises he hasn’t answered his question. “Yes, I’m sure. I trust you,” he declares, looking deep into Jamie’s soul.

“I trust you both,” he says again, turning back to look at Richard. “I love you, Richard.”

“I love you too,” Richard and Jamie say, almost in unison. Taron feels himself smile and _blush_, oddly enough. Richard is flushing a light shade of pink, too. Jamie reaches a hand out, resting it on Taron’s shoulder blade. Richard grabs it, fingers entwining again, like they did before.

After that, it all gets kind of foggy.

The slick sound of lube.

Jamie’s cock pressing against Taron’s hole.

Some cautious pushing.

The stretch.

The _fullness_.

The voices around him.

“God, Richard,” Jamie breathes, as he starts to move, sliding against Richard’s cock inside Taron.

“Jamie, you’re so… ughhh, _fuck_,” Richard says, incoherently. “_Big_,” he lets out, weakly, as he thrusts himself deeper into Taron. Taron writhes against them both, malleable, relaxed—melting into their touch.

In a moment of complete clarity, he realises something. He’s so cherished, so cared for, so _adored_ by the two men buried deep inside him. He’s never been more utterly _whole_ in his life—and it’s the best feeling in the world.

He’s being fucked by _two cocks_, stimulated from every angle, and it’s just... impossible to even conceive it, let alone to actually last long while it’s happening. This very quickly materialises in the form of his brain feeding him the familiar tingling sensation that precedes climax—and, for a few seconds, it actually feels like he’s about to explode.

Taron’s cock has been rubbing against both Richard’s and his stomachs for what feels like _hours_, and he can distinctly feel the moisture between them at every thrust of Jamie and Richard inside him. So, naturally, he grinds into it. He fucks it. He _chases_ it with everything he has—because the pressure against his prostate never lets up, and each of the cocks inside him seems to get there every half-second, effectively halving the time that he gets to take a breath and fight the orgasm that is threatening to overcome him. He’s overstimulated and stretched in the most pleasant way possible, and the accumulation of everything gets extremely unbearable, extremely quickly.

Taron reaches a point when it feels like actual fireworks are exploding in his brain, he seems to be filled by nothing but pure liquid pleasure, flowing in his veins like glimmering gold, and he can’t possibly take any more. He moves more and more desperately, pushing himself against the hardness of Richard’s abs, moaning in his mouth, and he just lets it happen — over the edge he goes.

He comes. Hard.

He spills on Richard’s stomach and grinds into the hot wetness, crying out inside the crook of Richard’s neck. He bites down on the hard muscle on Richard’s shoulder, clutches the pillows under Richard’s head with all his strength, clenches around the cocks inside him, feels the tears rolling down his face again—it all feels like it’s blurred into one single flawless moment, dragged out _ad infinitum_ by the incessant thrusting that is _still_ happening inside him, setting all his senses completely ablaze.

“Fuck, so…” Jamie starts, before pushing himself in once again. He’s slow and deliberate, and it sends some more high voltage electricity through Taron’s prostate. “…_fucking _good, baby… I’m so _close_…” he says, digging his fingers hard in the flesh of Taron’s hips.

“Is this still good, love?” Richard whispers into Taron’s ear. “Can you take more?” he says, in one single breath.

Taron wants more. He never wants this to end. He might be spent, hot, overstimulated, but he doesn’t care—he wants them _forever_.

“Come… inside me… _both_…” he stutters, clenching around them again. “Lift me up… want… deeper…” he somehow manages to instruct.

There’s another moment, right then, when the fog is blown out and the sky in Richard’s eyes is clear once again. He’s giving Taron a look that he knows well, the one that says _you’re the most marvellous creature in the world_, and he’s smiling that big, elated smile of his that says _I can’t fucking believe you’re mine_—and Taron feels seen, naked, transparent, and more in love than ever.

Jamie’s hands close around Taron’s shoulders, then—a comforting, strong, loving grip, slowly pulling his body up. Richard’s abs contract against Taron’s sensitive, still half-hard cock, and his heart beats even closer to Taron’s chest, booming through his ribcage as Richard lifts the top half of his body, and they both come up into a sitting position, Richard and Jamie’s legs tangled over each other.

The angle changes again, then, and Taron is drawn straight back to the Second Circle of Hell. The strong wind that Dante once designated as a punishment for insatiable lovers materialises in the form of Jamie and Richard’s fast and hard breathing on both sides of his neck, where they’re both kissing him greedily, moaning, alternating between loud obscenities and soft, gasping declarations of love, and Taron feels ferociously dizzy, drinking in the filth and the tenderness and the absolute _perfection_.

He’s so high on adrenaline and endorphins, so spent, so limp after his shattering orgasm, still so unbelievably full and ecstatic, that for a second he feels like he might collapse under the intensity of it all. Jamie is there, though—his strong chest pressed around Taron’s back, his solid arms hooked under Taron’s own, supporting him, and his big hands pressed wide and comforting against Taron’s chest. Richard is all around him too, pushing his hips down gently, tracing small circles on the soft skin of his buttocks, kissing him deeply. Taron can’t possibly be safer.

Jamie’s thrusts start to become less deep and closer together, then, and his moans change pitch slightly, as they always do when he’s about to come. One of his hands on Taron’s chest leaves it for a second, and Jamie turns it to scratch at Richard’s pecs instead, _demanding_. He presses himself even harder against Taron’s back, resting his chin on Taron’s shoulder, and Richard gets the message—he leans in further too, and he kisses Jamie messily, all tongue and teeth and loud groans, and Taron’s oversensitive body feels them both harden even more inside him, and it’s just _impossibly hot_.

“I’m… fuck…” Jamie lets out, incoherently, against Richard’s lips.

“Yes, love, _yes_,” Richard replies, surprisingly controlled despite his eyes rolling back in his skull and his breath coming out in a rushed hiss on the last word. “Come on my cock, I want tae feel you.”

“Oh, _God_, Richard,” Taron says, his entire body flooded by an inconceivable physiological reaction, as, impossibly, he seems to be on the verge of climaxing. Again.

Jamie’s teeth bite hard on the nape of Taron’s neck and his breath is hot and hard against it, as he thrusts forward, relentless, deep and strong, and Taron feels him spill inside, filling him up even more than he already is, uttering loud, blasphemous nonsense.

“That was… _beautiful_, love,” Richard mutters, on edge, moving in again to kiss Jamie. “So good, so… fuck, I’m gonna…” he cuts himself off, pressing down hard on Taron’s hips, thrusting himself up and up and up, the slickness of lube and come aiding him in his quest for release. Richard closes his eyes when he gets there, crying out his pleasure inside a desperate kiss.

As soon as their mouths come together and Taron tastes the salty sweat on Richard’s lips, that also taste unmistakeably like _Jamie_, he feels an instantaneous and devastating surge of heat hitting him, and air being completely knocked out of his lungs.

He rides his second orgasm incredulously but proudly, like he’s being kissed by the gods—and he is, of course. Jamie and Richard are his life, his everything, all he’s ever needed. He’s basking in the warmth of Jamie’s sunny embrace, and he’s hypnotised by the serious moonlight of Richard’s gaze—and, as his head spins, knocked about in the mighty storm of his climax, it’s almost like they’re revolving around him, hugging him, holding him tight and never letting him go.

He’s in love.

He’s loved.

He’s complete.

** **

** _Richard – Let me tell you, no-one ever got my soul right like he could_ **

_November 11th, 5:30 A.M._

Richard wakes up slowly. He’s lying on Jamie’s bed, Taron on his left, Jamie on his right, and the duvet is heavy and comforting on his naked body.

He doesn’t open his eyes right away, preferring to adapt to being awake by listening to what is happening around him. He listens to the sound of rain, a rhythmic pitter-patter on the roof right over their heads, louder on the glass of the skylight next to the bed.

He listens to the rustling of covers, as Taron shifts around next to him, repositioning himself.

He listens to Jamie and Taron breathing softly, still peacefully asleep.

He doesn’t only listen, though. He also _feels_.

He feels that he’s on his side, turned towards Jamie—who’s on his back, lying perfectly still—and he has an arm draped over Jamie’s body, gently pulling him close.

He feels Jamie’s chest, moving up and down, rhythmically, slowly, soothingly.

He feels the firmness of Jamie’s abs under his forearm, and then of something else, protruding against them and poking him impertinently.

_Oh, well, fuck._

A veritable _tsunami_ of arousal hits him in the span of around five seconds, as he comes to the realisation that Jamie—incredibly, dedicated, generous lover Jamie, whom Richard never really thought he would have the chance to get with—is lying next to him, naked as the day he was born, and he has a _giant_ morning hard-on, and…

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

He opens his eyes and realises that the room is still immersed in darkness, except for the delicate silver sheen of the moonlight entering through the skylight. The feeble glow catches Jamie’s face and his half-uncovered torso, and shadows play around his sharp lineaments and his sculpted shoulders, and he’s even more gorgeous than usual, if at all possible—and Richard needs him. Right now. _Immediately_.

His own cock wakes up, too, very quickly becoming painfully hard, almost _unbearably_ so. He could grind it against Jamie’s thigh, he supposes, waking him up and letting him know how much he needs him.

Or, alternatively, what he could do is slip further underneath the covers and try something he’s been thinking of, and that he didn’t manage to have a crack at last night, when they were all too caught up in exploring just how far Taron could be stretched and generally taking turns fucking him, and making him come all of six times. The thing is—Richard has been gasping to get his lips around Jamie’s cock for weeks on end, and that’s exactly what he’s going to do right now.

He discreetly shifts further down on the bed, careful not to move too abruptly so that he won’t disturb Jamie’s slumber. The duvet now covering his head plunges him into further darkness—a darkness that is hot and welcoming, and that smells like the promise of sexual fulfilment. He positions himself the way he wants to be, spreading Jamie’s legs just a tad to be able to kneel between them, and he gets his face near to Jamie’s cock, ghosting it with his breath.

Jamie smells clean, on account of the indulgent shower they all took together—which resulted in petting Taron some more and mercilessly making him lose control once again—but he also smells unmistakeably _manly_, in a way that never fails to make Richard’s head spin. He wants Jamie inside him, he wants to be fucked into oblivion—he just _needs_ it, so fucking bad.

He lets his eyes get used to the deep obscurity once again, and he cautiously wraps a hand around the hard, perfect shaft of Jamie’s cock, and he pulls the foreskin down, to reveal the already partially uncovered tip of it. He felt it last night, but now he can see it: it’s _huge_. He sticks his tongue out and he grazes it, capturing the tiny bit of moisture on there—which makes Jamie move a bit on the bed, and Richard squirm in anticipation. Then, he licks his lips to slick them up, and he finally closes them around the object of his immediate desire.

Richard moves his head slowly down to let Jamie’s cockhead in completely. It takes so much more effort than it normally does with Taron—he has to stretch his jaw almost painfully to accommodate a cock that is not only longer than he’s used to, but also deliciously thick and veiny—and it feels unattainable, but finally he manages to get it halfway into his mouth. Fuck, he’s proud of himself. Also, this is all _terribly _hot.

He pulls back up, starting to suck in his cheeks and simultaneously getting to work on jerking Jamie off with one hand, as he runs his other hand over his abs—now aware of how ridiculous it would be to pretend that Jamie is not waking up, and wanting to explore every bit of him he can, all the while going down on him.

God, the taste of him. The length, the thickness—the _shape_. So new, so hard, so _perfect_. He definitely needs more.

Getting Jamie’s cock deeper, down to the back of his throat, is not an easy endeavour. It is _delicious_, though. The fullness, the feeling of almost unbearable impossibility to breathe that Richard gets from it… it’s almost like being choked, really. And Richard _loves_ being choked.

“Ooooh, _fuck_,” Richard hears Jamie’s voice utter, muffled by the heavy duvet but loud enough for him to distinguish the words. “Fuck, oh, God, _yes_,” he groans, a bit louder still, as brings a hand down to slightly tug at Richard’s hair, pulling him away a bit—almost as if he wanted to push on his head to get himself deeper into Richard’s mouth, but somehow still held himself back.

Richard doesn’t wait a single second. He covers Jamie’s hand with his own, grips on it tight, and he pushes it against his own head—telling Jamie it’s okay, that he wants it, he wants it all, and he wants it _rough_. Jamie groans again as something in his muscles seem to loosen up and he bucks his hips forward, once, twice, hard, making Richard gag and his head feel light as a feather. He moans and closes his eyes momentarily, enjoying the sensation of his air being cut off, the hotness around him, and the incredible cock in his mouth, hardening more and more by the minute.

Then, suddenly, just as oxygen deprivation and the suffocating heat around him are starting to become a tad too much, a fresh breeze hits Richard’s naked skin. Jamie has yanked the duvet away from their bodies, sending it over Taron’s side of the bed. Richard shudders in relief at the sensation, but doesn’t for a second stop going down on Jamie. He hollows his cheeks and swirls his tongue around Jamie’s tip like his life depends on it, and it’s so good to actually be able to look up at him, now, and watch him squirm under his touch, and _hear_ him properly, too.

Needless to say, Jamie is now completely and fully awake, and his speech is consistently more incoherent as the minutes pass—but he’s also very _loud_. So loud, in fact, that he seems to be waking _Taron_ up, too—his soft limbs move with a bit more conviction next to Richard and Jamie, and Richard observes as he opens his eyes for a split-second… and then closes them again. Maybe he’s not waking up, after all. Maybe he thinks he’s dreaming.

Richard needs Jamie inside him, and he needs him _now_.

He slides his mouth off Jamie, and Jamie whimpers at the loss, instinctively arches his back, pushing his cock towards him, looking for more. Richard moves up to kiss Jamie’s pelvis and abs and chest and neck, all the while positioning himself so that he’s straddling him—feeling the girth and the hardness of the cock beneath him, grinding on it, purring at the sensation, and biting hard on his lip while he fixes his gaze on Jamie.

“Fuck, Richard, you…” Jamie tries to say, breathlessly, not making much sense. He looks desperately aroused, elated—in _shock_.

Richard leans over him, bringing their faces closer, lips ghosting, breaths mixing. “I want you, Jamie. I need you. I’ve been _dreaming_ about this. Please, please, fuck me?” he implores, feeling his voice break with the overwhelming desire that is taking control of every cell in his body.

Jamie gasps at that, looking like he’s having the most mesmerising of epiphanies.

“God, Richard. My _fucking_ God. The amount of times I’ve…” he pauses. He kisses Richard’s lips, softly, then closes his eyes and exhales hard, still looking like he can’t believe his eyes or ears.

Then, something shifts, almost imperceptibly. His surprised expression turns wicked. The damn half-smile Richard knows means _trouble_ is suddenly painted on his face—and he locks Richard’s jaw the firm grip of his left hand. “Oh, Richard. If only you knew how _long_ I’ve spent fantasising about this. Of course I will fuck you, gorgeous.”

A thrill of anticipation and pure happiness goes through Richard as they kiss again, smiling against each other. It’s so new, but so familiar and _nice_, too. It feels like they were _destined_ to come together like this. Like they’ve always had a secret, a secret that they both kept for the entirety of their lives up to this moment. Like they’ve kept this hidden away forever and, when they finally decided to open up about it, they discovered that the secret is actually the same. It feels meant to be. It feels _right_.

It feels especially right when Jamie doesn’t stop kissing him as he reaches a hand out over the side of the bed, blindingly trying to grab onto the knob of his bedside table drawer and failing miserably for a good ten seconds, making Richard giggle softly. He decides to help him out, then, leaning forward to pull the drawer open, and he’s rewarded with a longing bite on his right nipple—fuel to the already roaring flames in his body, really—that makes him shiver and groan out loud. He forgets what he was doing almost entirely and presses Jamie’s face closer to his chest. He gets bitten again, harder, and it’s painful but oh so _good_, so he closes his eyes and loses himself in the sensation. This is what he wanted. _Exactly _what he wanted.

When he opens his eyes again, Jamie is holding a small black bottle in his right hand. He looks aroused and inquisitive.

“How… do you want _me_ to or…?”

“_Yes_, please. Spent way too long doing this on my own, thinking of how it would feel to actually have _your_ fingers in me.” Damn, did he just say this out loud?

“Fuck, Richard, did you _really_?” Jamie breathes, fixing his eyes on Richard’s hands, now moving on his cock, painfully slowly.

Richard hisses slightly as he presses a particularly sensitive spot, then he nods. “For _hours_, sometimes. Multiple times a day. Last week, especially, was a right mess,” he admits, scratching at Jamie’s chest, trying to convey all the frustration and longing he’s kept to himself for weeks on end. “Fuck, I want you, Jamie. I need you. Now.”

Richard has _never_ been so outspoken about his own desires in his life, and fuck it feels good.

“God, _yes_,” Jamie utters, as he unscrews the cap off the bottle of lube and he sends it flying somewhere over the end of the bed. The clear liquid looks luscious and incredibly enticing, glimmering in the soft silver light they’re currently immersed in, and Jamie’s long, skinny fingers coated in it look for a second like the most enticing spectacle Richard’s ever witnessed.

He grabs Jamie’s wrist and keeps his eyes shamelessly on his while he moves his body up a bit, kneeling higher, to be able to drive Jamie’s hand underneath himself. He feels Jamie’s fingers tease at his entrance, then, and it takes everything in him to not just push against them and take what he needs.

He’s been so demanding, up until now. So in control. Now, he wants to _lose_ control.

He wants to be good—he wants to _behave_.

Jamie’s still looking at him like he’s asking for permission, though, so Richard gives it to him. Nods, frantically, pushes his butt out a bit. Feels the tip of one finger slowly breaching him. It’s _heaven_.

Seconds, minutes, _hours_ seem to pass while Jamie opens him up, leaving him absolutely breathless. He’s gentle, expertly twisting and scissoring his fingers inside Richard to stretch him out in the most perfect way—and Richard’s on the edge immediately, all he wants is to come and come, but he _can’t_, he knows he can’t, not _yet_—he wants the rest of it, too, goddamnit. He squeezes the base of his cock as tight as he can when he feels himself get close, his brain floating in and out of climax, groaning in soul-shattering pleasure and just a tad of frustration… until he can’t take any more. So, he begs again. He _has to_.

“Fuck me, _please_ fuck me,” he implores, whimpering, barely recognising the sound of his own voice.

He must have been louder than he realised, too, because he feels Taron move around next to them once again. He stirs a bit, stretching his limbs, rubbing his head into his pillow. He looks peaceful.

Richard is brought back to reality when Jamie’s fingers slide out of him and he grabs the bottle of lube again, coating the rest of his hand and squirting some more onto his cock, slicking himself up as he looks up at Richard with unmistakeable hunger in his eyes. Jamie wants him every bit as bad, it seems—and it’s _exhilarating_.

When Jamie’s cock finally, finally, fucking _finally _slides inside him, stretching him out in the most damn _perfect_ way possible, Richard can’t stop the throaty, hoarse, dragged-out groan of satisfaction he’s been harbouring inside his chest from coming out. Jamie makes a similar noise, tightening his grip on Richard’s hips and digging his fingertips into the curve of his arse, pushing Richard down further still, making him wheeze. Sparks fly around Richard’s whole body, and he closes his eyes, revelling how full he feels, how utterly complete.

As he starts moving upwards again, feeling every vein and every inch of Jamie slide out of him, he hears someone gasp. “Oh, my… _fuck_, boys, you’ve been busy, haven’t ya?” Taron’s voice comes in, slightly croaky, but _definitely_ pleased.

Richard opens his eyes and turns his head slightly, to fix them on Taron’s—wide awake, dumbfounded Taron. He bites his own lip and tries to mimic an innocent expression. He realises how difficult it is, what with approximately ten inches of cock currently halfway inside him, but he gives it his best shot all the same.

“Sorry, pet,” Jamie replies in Richard’s stead. “Someone was feeling _needy_.” Richard can’t help but nod, as he starts rolling his hips once again to sit himself back down. God, it’s so good. So _fucking_ good.

Taron chuckles. He reaches a hand out to turn on a knob beside the bed, and everything is suddenly bathed in soft, orangey mood lighting. Taron then raises himself to a sitting position, gets rid of the double layer of duvet on top of him, and caresses Richard’s arm, longingly.

“God, look at you—I’ve _never_ seen you like this, my love.” Richard sees fire in Taron’s eyes. The connection between them feels every bit as intense as the one he’s currently sharing with Jamie, and it’s mind-bending.

“He’s been asking so nicely, you know,” Jamie says, before pushing himself upwards and into Richard more vigorously, grunting in pleasure. Richard feels like he’s losing his balance—he can’t see clearly anymore, because Jamie’s successfully hit his prostate and his eyes are rolling back inside his skull—but Jamie’s hands are there, gripping him so tightly, so caringly, so skilfully, right where he needs to be held, like they’ve done this a hundred thousand times before—so he doesn’t fall. “I couldn’t possibly refuse,” Jamie adds, his cheeky half-grin back in place even when he’s visibly struggling to keep his composure.

God, how is Jamie managing to speak clearly, to even make any sense? Richard’s ability to form words just seems to be forever lost, gone, sunk in the deep sea of his arousal. It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to say anything—he just physically can’t.

Taron looks like a child at Christmas—he’s _so happy_, his eyes are wide with excitement, and he can’t keep still. He moves again, getting to a kneeling position and catching Richard’s lips into a wet, open-mouthed kiss, as his hand comes to cup one of Richard’s buttocks and he smacks it, once, sufficiently hard to make his skin tingle in glorious pain and an elated wheeze escape his mouth.

“See, Jamie,” Taron says, matter-of-factly, his hand grazing the spot where he hit Richard’s arse and guiding Richard’s hips back down, aiding and empowering the penetration. “He likes being spanked, sometimes. I’m guessing today’s one of those days, eh, love?” he says, smiling and raising one eyebrow, before he kisses Richard again. Richard nods against his lips, tries to get a weak _yes_ out, but he’s again cut off by Jamie’s cock rubbing his prostate.

Jamie moans, loud, and slaps his other buttock. On impact, Richard lets out a breathy groan. The burn is so exquisite, and Richard’s so sensitive and so incredibly turned on by the whole thing—and he feels like he’s dangerously inching into orgasm territory again, and he has no idea whether he’ll be able to stop himself, this time.

Just as he’s thinking this, just as Jamie plants his heels on the mattress and shoves himself inside Richard more powerfully, picking up a slightly faster pace—just as Richard think they’ve reached the absolute _peak_ of coital fulfilment, something else happens.

Taron shifts a bit on the bed, making himself more comfortable, and he speaks up again. “He also likes when you do this…” he says, delicately closing his hand around Jamie’s left wrist and moving it from Richard’s hip to the side, letting Jamie’s fingers graze over Richard’s abs, and then taking it upwards and upwards still, until it reaches Richard’s throat.

Richard inhales sharply. Taron and Jamie do too—loudly, in unison. Richard feels Jamie’s fingers carefully wrap around his throat and it makes something inside his brain explode. The connection between them is absolute, and Richard clenches around Jamie’s shaft as he feels a fierce rush of blood reach his own cock, making it even harder not to lose it completely.

Jamie’s hand is still tentative and shy, though, as if he was afraid to break him, as if he were made of porcelain. He most definitely is not. Better let Jamie know, he reckons.

He sits further down on the cock inside him and he caresses Jamie’s forearm before clasping it tightly, leaning forward a bit, and pressing Jamie’s hand harder against his throat, nodding frantically.

Jamie finally starts choking him properly, and it’s just… incredible. He feels his head getting hotter and everything around him becoming muffled. It’s as if he was immersed in cotton, and all his senses were muted—and all sensations, too.

Well, all, except one. The _fullness_ is still there, of course, and it’s like it’s just been hooked up to a speaker and amplified. In the moment, it seems completely inconceivable that anything else in the world exists beside the feeling of Jamie’s cock, buried deep inside him, perfectly _still_, and hardening more every second.

“Fuck…” Richard lets out. No real sound comes out of his mouth—mainly a shaky wheeze. God, Jamie really knows what he’s doing.

“Fuck him, Jamie. Go on, he can take a bit of roughness. Can’t you, love?”

Richard registers Taron’s words through the cotton wool in his brain, and he feels himself leak onto Jamie’s stomach, desperate arousal rushing everywhere in his body. He looks at Taron, then—and he finds that the man is every bit as _smug_ as Richard thought he would be. Like a masterful conductor, tuning his soloists up, making them come together as perfectly as possible.

“_Yes_,” Richard gasps, leaning forward, both to choke himself harder and to get his head closer to Taron’s. Taron kisses him fiercely, and Jamie recklessly rams his hips up, knocking more air out of Richard’s lungs, as he tightens his grip on his throat.

As promised, it’s rough. It’s rough, but it’s also slow and calculated, and it’s quite simply the most incredible sex Richard’s ever had in his life.

Until, at some point, he needs more. He needs a different angle, he needs to be pinned down on the bed, and he needs to be _ravished_.

Not quite knowing where the word comes from, or how it manages to get out despite Jamie’s firm grip on his throat, he hears himself ask for it. “Harder...” It’s feeble, but it definitely does the trick.

Jamie says yes. He says yes to everything.

His hand is off Richard’s throat and it lands back on his left buttock, and Richard still feels every bit as breathless as he did when he was being choked, really.

“Up, loverboy,” Jamie says, smiling up at Richard and tapping lightly on the reddening skin of the cheek he just smacked, encouraging the change of position that Richard himself just demanded.

Richard’s hips move upward, he involuntarily moans at the loss of contact, and he moves to Jamie’s side, lying down and spreading his legs.

“What a fucking vision you are, Rich,” Jamie says, appreciatively, as he covers Richard’s body with his, grabbing Richard’s wrists and raising them up over his head. “How d’you want it, love?” he asks.

Richard deliberately writhes against Jamie’s touch, and he arches his back to bring the top of their bodies together. He raises his head, looking for Jamie’s lips. Jamie obliges, coming closer, just not quite kissing him.

“_Hard_,” Richard whispers. Jamie nods and kisses him, taking his breath away.

When Richard opens his eyes again, he catches another glimpse of Taron, who’s now shamelessly fucking his own hand and looking at him and Jamie like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Jamie lets go of Richard’s wrists, but Richard keeps them in place, quite enjoying the surrender position Jamie’s gotten him in. He feels Jamie grip one of his spread thighs and he hears the slick sound of lube once again, before Jamie pushes himself in, and Richard is _full_ once again.

Both of Jamie’s hands grab Richard’s thighs, then, and he sets out to one hundred percent deliver on his promise. He fucks the _life_ out of Richard—quick, deep, _hard_—and Richard feels himself getting increasingly light-headed and elated, as the pleasure mounts and mounts, until he’s tingling all over, more than ready to come completely undone. He lets himself be as loud as he can possibly get, then, revelling in the knowledge that Taron is looking at them, that they’re putting on a show for him, that he can feast his eyes on this finally happening, right before his eyes, and that he loves and accepts everything that is going on.

Then, just as Richard feels like he's seconds away from the messiest orgasm of his life, Taron speaks.

“Darling, he’s close,” he tells Jamie, his melodious voice a stark contrast to the animalistic grunts that have been filling the air until now. “Slow down, love. Make him want it more.”

Oh, fuck, Taron knows him so well. Richard _was_ about to come. He was about to let himself go and stain himself and the luxurious sheets beneath him with the result of Jamie Bell fucking him like he’s never been fucked before.

Jamie obeys. He slows down, then he comes to a complete halt. The groan of frustration and the tiny chuckle he lets out in that moment seem to perfectly mirror how Richard feels, right now. The ladder he’s been patiently climbing towards the promise of release seems to just have been made three miles longer, and his breathing regretfully steadies.

Fuck, Taron is good at this. The symphony sounds _flawless_ so far.

“I reckon someone better pin you down, Dickie. Would you like that, my love?”

Taron’s eyes scrutinise him deeply. Richard bites hard on his lip, and nods. “Yes.”

Taron raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes, _please_,” Richard says. Taron smiles, satisfied, and he kisses him softly.

“I’ll take care of it, sweetheart. Be good for me now, and Jamie might even let you come. Won’t you, J?”

“It will be my…” Jamie says, pausing as he thrusts himself further in, impossibly slowly, and catches a breath. “…pleasure.”

It takes a bit of moving around on the bed to get Richard in the perfect position for this to happen, but they get there in no time. He’s lying diagonally on the bed—Jamie still between his legs, still moving imperceptibly slowly, still hard and impossibly thick inside him, still filling him up in the most delicious of ways—while Taron is kneeling behind Richard’s head, and he’s holding his wrists down on the mattress, forcefully pressing against them.

Jamie fully resumes fucking him, then, and it’s even better than it was before. The grip of Taron’s hands on his wrists is firm but loving, and the feeling of incredible helplessness and loss of control—which Richard rarely ever lets himself experience—is extremely liberating.

Every brush of Jamie’s cock against the deepest, most secret spot inside him is like an electric shock in his brain, and it’s suddenly really, really easy to get back on his climb towards climax. He sees the blue sky inside his head, basks in the sunshine of Taron’s voice, bathes in the filthy sounds of Jamie and Taron kissing above him, as Jamie’s hips start to stutter and his moans become louder, more and more desperate—and Richard finally, finally reaches the tipping point, and he screams his pleasure, he chases it every way he can, and he feels Jamie’s hand close around his neglected cock and help him through it.

Richard’s orgasm hits him even harder than he expected. He makes a mess of himself, and he wants to cry out, but Jamie instantly wraps his free hand around Richard’s throat again, amplifying his climax even further, and making it impossible to let a satisfying sound out.

Jamie then shoves himself into Richard one, two, three times more, and he groans loudly, leaning forward and shifting all his weight towards the hand clutched around Richard’s throat—and Richard feels Jamie’s come flood him, marking him, making him whole, and it’s just the most incredible feeling in the world, and Richard never wants it to end.

It eventually does, though. Richard feels Jamie soften inside him and then slide out, very slowly and carefully—until he collapses on the bed next to Richard.

Richard turns his head to the right to look at him—he’s dripping in sweat, his chest is heaving, and yet Richard finds him every bit as attractive as he usually does. If not more, actually.

Jamie reaches a hand out and caresses Richard’s cheek with his thumb, looking at him like he can’t believe neither what he’s seeing before his eyes, nor what just happened between them.

“Richard.” His name on Jamie’s lips somehow sounds _new_, like he’s never heard it before

“Jamie,” Richard says back.

“That was…” Jamie starts again, before the words die in his mouth. The way he’s looking at Richard…

“…wonderful,” Richard completes, sighing, as he cups one of Jamie’s cheeks in his hand, mimicking Jamie’s touch. “Thank you, Jamie.”

Jamie grins that stupidly attractive grin of his. “C’mere you,” he says, as he inches closer, taking Richard’s head in both his hands and kissing him fiercely. “Thank _you_, love.” Jamie kisses him once more, and Richard feels full again. 

From where Taron sits above them, still, his hands find both Richard and Jamie’s heads, and start petting their hair, soothingly. “That was _magnificent_, boys,” he says, sounding truly impressed.

Richard turns his head back up and is met with Taron’s loving gaze. He doesn’t know whether it’s the upside-down perspective, but he can swear Taron truly never looked more _in love_ as he does right now. He smiles up at him. “I love you, Taron.”

Taron grins back at him, stroking him a bit more still—like Richard’s a precious and fragile thing that needs to be cared for. He then crawls around on the bed and he lies down, on his stomach, right between Jamie and Richard.

“I love you too, Richard,” he says, sweetly, encouragingly hooking his index finger and moving it back and forth in the universal sign for _come here and kiss me_. Richard raises himself up slightly, moves forward, and kisses him. He feels warm all over. He feels loved.

“I love you, pet,” Jamie tells Taron, leaning in to kiss him too. Taron obliges, and Richard watches him smiling against Jamie’s lips. Then, Taron murmurs, “I love you too, gorgeous.”

“Do you need anything, babe?” Richard says, a voice inside his head having somehow butted in and started telling him that he’s been taken care of long enough, and that now’s his turn to give back. “You didn’t…”

“Oh, no, no, I’m perfectly alright, Dickie,” Taron says, shuffling slightly to turn himself around on the bed, so he’s lying on his back. Richard lies on his side and he drapes an arm across Taron. “Six in a 24-hour period is a lot, even for me. I don’t think I _could_, again, right now. Thank you, though,” Taron says, clasping Richard’s hand in his.

“Are you sure, darling?” Jamie asks, mirroring Richard’s posture, resting his hand on top of their tangled fingers. He kisses Taron’s shoulder, softly, and he rests his head in the crook of his neck.

“I’m sure, honey,” Taron says, bringing his other hand on top of the pile already on his chest. It’s such a simple, loving, intimate gesture. Richard feels the weight of it, physically and metaphorically, and his heartbeat quickens a tad.

“This, right here, is everything I’ve ever wanted,” Taron says, simply.

Richard’s heart threatens to burst.

He couldn’t agree more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. We made it. I hope you’re alive. I know it’s been a hard one for me, personally.
> 
> Now, brace yourself for some Top Class Rambling™.
> 
> Titles are by Paul McCartney, Arctic Monkeys—yes, [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_2rM8A_1-w) is the whole reason why I decided to call Taron _Golden Boy_ in the first place, and finally you get an answer to a question you were probably not even asking yourself—then, of course, Jamiroquai, and finally Dermot Kennedy, my J/R Irish bard.
> 
> First of all, shout-out to Dom!Jamie and Sub!Richard in the kitchen, and therefore to my gal [supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof), who has been weak for this imagery from day one, since this was just a bullet point in a list of ideas. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Also, a major shout-out to Voyeur!Taron, doing his best impression of Elton in his glory days. Give that man a Polaroid camera. (I’m realising that if you haven’t read _Me_, this will make little sense to you. Point being—go read that damn book. Or have Taron read it to you, which was my preferred way to consume that damn masterpiece, personally.)
> 
> Taron and his plug are filthy as all hell, and I’m not sorry for one single bit of what I wrote. Thanks to [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) for feeding me the line about the Head Cutter at Huntsman measuring his inseam and busting his *ahem* _little secret_. 
> 
> As you can tell, [drinkingstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkingstars/pseuds/drinkingstars)’s aforementioned campaign worked a charm. Babey got irreparably wrecked, and he was absolutely over the moon about it. Sorry not sorry for the following:
> 
> \- The uber pretentious use of Dante in the midst of all this porn (my Italian ass really couldn’t resist it)  
\- Coming back to _that_ sun/moon metaphor from Chapter 3  
\- Making Taron come twice in a very short timespan—he deserves it, alright?
> 
> Needy Richard taking Jamie like the good boy he is is mine and [supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof)’s wildest and most self-indulging dream come true, and ninety-nine percent of it is to be pinned on her and our incessant conversations on the subject. The choking is Intense™, but imho it’s also hot as fuck. Soft Dom!Taron is also a recent trope that we’ve been exploring, so I couldn’t help but putting it in there too.
> 
> I feel like I’m forgetting a lot of stuff here. Once again, thanks to [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) for a humongous amount of work—research on the most technical bits of this whole ridiculous porn, and for all the fire emojis they’ve scattered throughout the beta doc.
> 
> Last time I’m saying this, and it hurts—stay tuned for next week. We have a hell of an epilogue coming up. Some well-known bits and bobs from the 2019 awards season, some wishful thinking for the 2020 one—and, very importantly, _Christmas_.
> 
> I love you all a whole damn lot.
> 
> Take care,
> 
> C xx


	18. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tears and fears and feeling proud_   
_To say “I love you” right out loud_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. Let's jump straight into this, or I might cry.
> 
> To [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose), thank you for _everything_. I am incredibly grateful for every second you spent trying to make this story better. It would definitely not have been the same without your help.
> 
> To [supposeforthesakeof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supposeforthesakeof), [Egertonsend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egertonsend) and [drinkingstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkingstars/pseuds/drinkingstars), I hope this was everything you’d come to expect. I _cannae_ believe how far we’ve come.
> 
> Right. Now I really get to do this. Brace yourselves.
> 
> Hello, old friends.
> 
> And here we are. You and me, on the _very_ last page.
> 
> By the time you read these words, I will be stuffed full of Christmas food and regretting my life decisions—so, in the eventuality that I end up like Mr. Creosote in _The Meaning of Life_, know that I lived well, and was very happy. And, above all else, know that I will love you. Always.
> 
> Sometimes I do worry about you, though. I think, once this is done, you won’t be coming back here for a while and the tag will be deserted once again, which it should never be.
> 
> Don’t leave the _Rocketman_ fandom behind.
> 
> And do one more thing for me. There’s a little girl, waiting in a garden, playing with her cat. She’s going to wait a long while, so she’s going to need a lot of hope.
> 
> Go to her. Tell her a story.
> 
> Tell her that if she’s patient, the days are coming that she’ll never forget. Tell her that she’ll go to the cinema one day, and watch the greatest film ever made. That she’ll fall in love with the music, the colours, the story, the costumes—the _actors_. Tell her that she’ll pick up her long-lost passion for writing, and that she’ll manage to accomplish something that she never did before. Tell her that she’ll embark on a journey to write the longest story she’s ever attempted, and that she’ll _finish_ it, too.
> 
> Tell her that this is the story of Jamie, Taron and Richard. 
> 
> And this is how it ends.

** _Richard – You push the button, and we’ll do the rest / Tears and fears and feeling proud to say "I love you" right out loud_ **

_February 10th 2019, evening_

They’re in the back of a dark Mercedes limo van headed towards the Royal Albert Hall. Richard and Jamie are sitting together, and Taron is facing them, going backwards, looking at the pair of them like their cocks are made of solid gold. Knowing him, he probably thinks they are, actually.

Richard smiles at the thought, then turns his gaze towards Jamie, who looks uncharacteristically jumpy. He then bends down slightly to plant a soft kiss on Jamie’s temple. “You all right, honey?”

Richard meets Taron’s eyes across the space of the cab again, and Taron winks at him. _He’s fine_, he mouths.

“I’m fine,” Jamie replies, squeezing Richard’s leg. Richard glances at Taron again, and he can read the _knew it_ in his eyes. “Just a bit nervous, I guess?” Jamie adds, speaking his mind.

“What about, J? You’re definitely the most accomplished between the three of us, love.”

“Oh, _hardly_,” Jamie huffs, rolling his eyes and giving him a small smile. “Wasn’t that you, up on stage, last month? Mr. _Golden Globe_?”

“I meant at the BAFTAs,” Richard says, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the only one here who ever won one, aren’t you? But you’re perfectly right, actually—_I_’_m_ the man of the hour, darling. I thought that was agreed upon,” he says, chuckling.

“See, Jamie, this is exactly why Pat calls him Little Dick,” Taron butts in.

“Oh, c’mon now, T. I was just joking,” Richard says, shaking his head and wrapping an arm around Jamie’s shoulders, pulling him in. He kisses him again, on the top of his head this time, smelling the balmy scent of his shampoo. Jamie melts into him, and he starts breathing more calmly.

“Course you were, but that was still funny as _hell_. It always is. Any excuse to whip that one out, my darling boy.”

Infuriating. Taron Egerton is infuriating. But Richard loves him with all his heart.

“It’s just—it’s our first _official_ outing, the three of us together. Walking the red carpet arm in arm. _Presenting_. Gavin’ll take pictures of us and everything. I’m worried I’ll be…”

“…obvious, love?” Taron interrupts him, reaching a hand out to grab Jamie’s across the empty space between the seats. “I get it, Jamie. But honestly, if there is one way I’d like for it all to be let out in the open, it’s definitely through Gavin bloody Bond’s beautiful shots.”

Richard and Taron’s eyes meet once again, and Richard hopes to God his gaze is eloquent enough. _You’re supposed to reassure him, you big old duffer, not get him even more worked up_, he thinks he’s saying.

It seems to do the trick, because Taron then speaks again. “In all seriousness, though, J. If you _want_ to give either of us the eye, tonight, nothing’s really stopping you. We’re all dressed up and we look like a million bucks—I think they can cut us some slack. Plus, we just made the gayest movie of the year together… If anything, it’s good publicity,” he says, matter-of-factly, a big smile warming his handsome face. “You’ll be fine, love. _We’ll_ be fine. I promise,” he concludes, smiling some more, bringing Jamie’s hand to his lips, and kissing it softly.

What a _bloody_ charmer.

Richard observes as Jamie leans forward a tad to squeeze Taron’s hand more tightly, and Richard’s heart threatens to burst. Then Jamie nestles back into Richard’s embrace and, out of the blue, he starts giggling like a madman.

Richard is perplexed. Again, he looks at Taron, searching for answers. “No idea, mate. Always been a bit barmy, this one,” Taron replies, resting his chin on his elbow as he observes Jamie’s apparent breakdown.

“What is it now, James?” Richard then asks him, because he, too, is definitely curious.

“Oh, nothing,” Jamie wheezes, drying a few happy tears with his thumb and sitting up again, disentangling himself from Richard’s grasp. “I’m just picturing the title page of _The Sun_, really. _The Rocketmen, shooting off together_. Would make for a damn good one on Harry’s wall, wunnit?”

Richard snorts. Tries to keep it in as best as he can, but the thought of all the actual _shooting off _they’ve done during the past few months is impossible to suppress—so he eventually does end up breaking down.

“Oh my God, Jamie Bell,” Taron says, bursting into laughter. “You should work for them, really. You’re _wasted_ as an actor, love.”

“Ditto,” Richard agrees. “We definitely need to make it happen before _Kingsman 3_, methinks.”

Five minutes later, the car finally pulls in and comes to a halt. The Albert Hall looks even more extraordinary than usual, tonight, and Richard’s heart starts beating a bit faster. He grasps Taron’s hand in his left, and Jamie’s in his right, and he tells them they’re going to be alright.

They _are_ alright, of course. The red carpet is a success, and Gavin sneaks up on them at any given chance.

They’re waiting behind the scenes together, about to go on stage, and he pops up again. No-one’s posing, they’re barely even put together—Richard is clutching the award, Taron is fixing his shirt, Jamie is looking pensively forward—but Gavin clicks and clicks and clicks, even when a kind woman from wardrobe is lint-rolling Richard’s tux.

Gavin doesn’t stop telling them they’re _absolutely gorgeous_, and that he really wouldn’t be able to pick his favourite for the next James Bond between them. But then, when they’re finally called up and they start walking towards the stage, he takes Richard to the side and gestures for him to lend him his ear. Richard does.

“It’s you, of course. You’re my _007_. Just don’t tell Taron—he thinks _he_’s my favourite.”

Richard blushes furiously, thanks him, and then runs to keep up with Jamie and Taron, who are a few yards in front of him already.

Being out, in front of all the cameras, is quite thrilling. Richard is much more nervous than he’d anticipated he would be, sure, but it all goes very damn smoothly. He can hardly help himself from looking at Taron and Jamie like one hundred percent of his daily happiness comes directly from them—so he doesn’t. No more holding back. He lets his love shine through, and it’s _wonderful_.

They come off, and Gavin whisks them away once again. Backstage, it’s all kind of confusing—the famous faces, all the walking through crowded corridors, the countless obligatory showbiz smiles and _oh, so nice to see you_s—until they finally get to a designated space and they can all breathe normally again.

This is exactly what they agreed for the shoot—minimal staff around them, few lights, and a simple backdrop. The latter is a gorgeous, dark pink wall, that will accentuate the deep blue of Taron’s velvet _magnificently_, in Richard’s humble opinion—he and Jamie will just limit themselves to standing next to him and letting him shine, he guesses.

“Alright, boys, here we go!” Gavin says, excitedly, fixing his camera on the tripod that was prepared for him.

Taron and Jamie step closer to the wall to position themselves in front of the camera, but Gavin comes in again, hurriedly. “Oh fellas, sorry, I was meaning to ask you—can I please get a few of Richard alone, first? Y’know, he did just win a Globe...”

Richard’s cheeks are on fire again. He shrugs and he looks apologetically across the small space at Taron—who, as expected, has just put on his best camp-and-outraged look. Richard then glances at Jamie to see if he shares the feeling—and he does, but more in an _oh, here we go again, Madden steals the show_ kind of way.

He mouths _sorry_ at both of them, and he steps in front of the camera.

“You’re getting me in trouble, here, Gav,” he murmurs, through the hopefully dashing smile he’s giving him. Gavin raises an eyebrow, shakes his head, and flexes his fingers in the shape of a gun, recalling the Bond talk they had some ten minutes ago. Richard cringes slightly, and that results in him scrunching his mouth and nose up—a tic that, unfortunately, he thinks he’ll never get rid of. Gavin snaps it. Of course he does.

“All done! Marvellous, Richard,” Gavin says, winking at him. He then turns towards Jamie and Taron, waiting in the sidelines. “Thanks boys, sorry to keep you waiting,” he tells them, making a welcoming gesture with his arm to encourage them to join Richard against the backdrop.

“All in together, then, guys, yeah?” Gavin asks, preparing to take some more pictures. Richard watches Taron adjust his bow tie, looking serious and gorgeous. Jamie does it too, and then comes to step in-between them—and that’s when Richard notices his nerves again. It’s quite adorable, if he’s honest—for a while, the poor man doesn’t even know where to stand. He’s between Richard and Taron one second, and he tries to walk past Taron to put Taron in the middle the next second, and he just looks uneasy and confused the whole time—what is happening to Jamie Bell, tonight?

“C’mere, mate,” he says, opening his arm for Jamie to step closer to him.

“Is this okay?” Jamie asks, nervously.

“Yes, yes,” Richard says, soothingly, closing his arm around Jamie. “We’ll be fine, love, relax,” he whispers, soothingly, under his breath.

They step in closer together, and Gavin gives them some more directions. “Right, come forward a little bit there—kind of in the middle of that rug.”

“Am I not straight?” Taron asks, to no-one in particular, as he adjusts his bow tie once again.

Jamie smirks and murmurs sideways to Richard. “That’s the question _everyone_’s asking, these days, innit?”

Not quite knowing how, Richard manages to stifle the hysterically loud chuckle he wants to let out with a small smile.

“Richard doesn’t even want us in the shot, anyway, Gav,” Taron says, cheeky, giving Gavin a knowing look.

“Oh, but I do,” Richard argues, loudly. “’Cause I love you both,” he declares, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He barely realises what he’s said, before he’s saying it again. “I _love_ you both!” he repeats, stressing his statement by making an eloquent hand gesture—like the true thespian he sometimes kids himself he is.

Jamie gives him a blinding smile, and all the anxiety seems to have been erased from his face in a split-second. Only true happiness is left in those gorgeous grey eyes, and Richard simply has to smile back at him, as he brings a hand to his mouth to bite at his fingernails, nervously thinking of the enormity of what he’s just let out, cleverly disguised as friendly banter between mates and co-stars.

Jamie looks at him, and mirrors Richard’s fingernail biting, but he stops halfway, not quite reaching his mouth—looking elated and just completely serene.

There’s a moment, then. It’s nothing more than half a heartbeat, really, but it’s definitely there. It’s an instant when Richard feels like everyone around them completely disappears. It’s just the two of them, then, back in the pub where they hung out alone for the very first time, and there’s that _connection_ once again, the one he’s felt with Jamie from day one. It’s more than complicity, more than friendship, more than the complete and utter carnal desire for each another—it’s _love_, Richard realises. True love.

The rest of the shoot flies by. Richard thankfully gets to sit his bum down on a stool, and then they all let Gavin boss them around a little more. He tells the three of them where to stand, how to look at the camera, what to do with their hands, how to _interact_ with each other—completely oblivious to the fact that they all share a bed most nights of the week when they’re not travelling, and that they’ve been very happily fucking each other’s brains out for months on end. It’s a very naughty secret Richard’s hiding behind his signature smoulder—and it’s _exhilarating_.

Right at the end, Gavin has them standing again. He wants more shots of them—“for future reference” he says.

“Let’s get the leading man in the middle, then, shall we?” he says.

Taron steps between them, “Sorry, boys, let the_ leading man_ through, thaaaank you!” he says.

Richard shakes his head as he shifts his weight on his left foot to lean closer to Taron, then he steadies himself and goes back to smiling to the camera.

Someone behind Gavin utters something about a well-deserved cigarette break coming up, and they all chuckle—and, well, _great_, now it’s basically all Richard’s thinking about, isn’t it?

“Eyes to the camera, there!” Richard hears Gavin say. He knows it can’t possibly be meant for him—he’s _looking_ at the bloody thing.

So he turns his head slightly, to look at what his lovers might be doing. That’s when he sees that Jamie is, for lack of a better word, _smelling_ Taron up. He seems to be sniffing with a purpose, looking for a hint of something, like a truffle dog on a quest to dig up a big treasure.

“Jamie? Eyes to the camera, please?” Gavin asks again, an amused tone in his voice.

“Just checking whether he’s had a sneaky one without us, already,” Jamie explains, discreetly, shrugging. Richard grins at him—he absolutely loves it when Jamie steps into _fussy boyfriend_ mode.

Richard decides to play the game too, then. He sniffs Taron up a couple of times and he pats his bum for good measure, all the while looking at Jamie, who sports a wicked grin on his face. “Dunno what you’re talking about. Haven’t had a cig for a month,” Taron proclaims, nonchalantly, raising an eyebrow at the camera and giving it a deliciously enticing look.

“A _month_?” Richard asks—maybe a bit too loud. Yeah, that’s a giant pile of horseshit if he’s ever heard of one.

“A cig _or_ a drink, for a month,” Taron insists, giving Gavin another of his dazzling smiles.

Richard can almost _hear_ Jamie’s brow furrowing.

“Aaaand big smiles, ‘cause it’s all finished. Thanks guys!” Gavin exclaims, happily. “Always a pleasure!”

“Pleasure’s ours, Gav. See you in a few months, mate, won’t we?” Taron asks, as he shakes Gavin’s hand.

“Oh, yes. Cannes, here we fucking come, baby,” he says, winking at all three of them. “Go on, then, bugger off. Enjoy that smoke, boys. See you very soon. _Behave_ yourselves.”

“Will do, chief,” Richard says, mimicking a military salute as he walks past him.

He positions himself between Jamie and Taron, then, and he wraps an arm around each of them, pulling them in—as close as it’s reasonable for one to hold two men whom the rest of the world thinks are just one’s pals, but whom one’s really living and sleeping with.

“Well done, boys,” he whispers, softly enough so only the two of them can hear. “Absolutely bloody smashed it.”

“I agree,” Taron says, smiling at both Richard and Jamie as they continue walking. “Don’t know what you were worried about, James.”

“Oh, well, you know me. I worry,” Jamie says, raising his shoulders. Richard looks quickly around them, realises no-one is looking at them, so he really can’t resist pulling Jamie in a bit closer and pressing a loud smooch onto his head. “Let’s get you that _drink_ then, darling, shall we?” Jamie adds, raising an eyebrow and eyeing Taron sardonically.

“Not had one in a _month_, have ye?” Richard asks, every bit as sarcastically. “I’m guessing the four Spritzes you had last night don’t count, then, do they?”

“Richard Madden, I’m disappointed in you,” Taron says, tutting and faking actual disappointment. “A Spritz _isn’t_ a drink, darling. It’s _aperitivo_. And nothing you have before dinner actually counts, _everyone_ knows that,” he says, the exasperated camp voice back in place, as he rolls his eyes dramatically. “It’s fine, though—thank God I’m here to get you boys up to speed with the world. Now, let’s get shitfaced at this stupid after party, and…” he pauses, stops walking, and gestures at both Richard and Jamie to lean in closer. “…and let’s go home early. Feeling like having sex in the _shower_, tonight, for some reason.”

** _Jamie – Eat, drink and be merry, come along with me: step into Christmas, the admission's free_ **

_Christmas Day, 2019_

Jamie is walking down the stairs when the doorbell rings. He glances at his watch, suddenly panicked. Fuck, they’re early.

On cue, the doorbell rings again. Damn, was his mum always this impatient?

“Darling, can you get the door? Kinda elbows deep in the oven, at the moment, my love!” Taron calls out, cheerfully.

Jamie finally lands on the base of the stairs and meets Taron’s gaze across the kitchen island. He wasn’t lying—he really _is_ bent over the oven, coating the giant turkey he’s been roasting for hours with more juices. He’s wearing a Christmassy apron, whose print mimics a Christmas jumper pattern, and he has flour all over his face from all the baking he’s been doing. He’s just so _cute_. Jamie wants to kiss him to death.

“Sure thing, pet. God, you _are _busy, aren’t ya?” Jamie tells him, with a smile. He blows a kiss at him before turning the corner and walking through the corridor to open the door.

Six people are waiting behind it, but his mum’s eyes are the first thing he sees—that familiar, bespectacled, loving gaze, warming his heart in an instant. He then glances at the two other women beside her. Tina and Pat are looking at him in almost the exact same way, and for a second he feels like he’s in a Richard Curtis movie and that _God Only Knows_ is about to play in the background.

“Hello, everyone!” he says, cheerful. He can’t help but notice that the three male counterparts to their mums are momentarily absent from the lovely picture in front of him, but he doesn’t get another word in, because, as he looks down and catches the eyes of the three other people in the doorframe, all hell breaks loose.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Jack cries out, taking a few, quick steps towards him and hugging his left leg. Jamie’s balance is threatened, but he manages to find it again. One of his hands instinctively finds his son’s blond locks, and he caresses him while his small arms tighten their grip around his leg.

“Jamie! Jamie!” Mari and Rosie shout, in unison, also moving towards him and mimicking Jack’s infectiously sweet PDA.

He’s so happy to see them all, and his heart is very full—but there’s a big problem with being a relatively short man and being tackled like this. All three children are now pressed so hard against him that there’s officially no chance in the universe he won’t fall. They’re smothering him more and more fiercely, the women aren’t doing anything to make them stop, and Jamie inevitably starts to fall backwards.

His face curls up in horror as he comes to the realisation that he’s most definitely going to land bum first on the carpet, and that he’s probably going to hurt himself in the process—because, unlike his six-year-old son and Taron’s baby sisters, he’s thirty-two and not made of rubber. But then, out of nowhere, he hears quick steps approach him from behind and he feels two strong arms catch him, breaking his fall at the very last minute.

Richard chuckles earnestly as he gets Jamie back to his feet, planting a kiss on the back of his head.

“I leave you alone for literally two minutes, and you almost get yourself crushed to death by wee bairns. Honestly, James,” he says, tutting, a big grin on his face. Jamie silently thanks him, but also telepathically tells him to fuck off. “Hello, Ma! Tina, Eileen, so great to see ye!” he says, hugging each woman in turn and letting his mum plant a big, loud smooch on his cheek. The bloody charmer. He did it again.

“You’re _prickly_, love,” Pat observes, caressing her son’s face. His beard is admittedly much longer, these days, and Jamie _lives_ for it.

“Not my call, I’m afraid. Ask these two, they _adore_ the stubble—they hid my electric razor and everything!” Richard says, chipper, pointing behind him with his thumb, in Jamie’s direction. Jamie gives Pat an apologetic look, and Pat winks at him. He already knows he’s off the hook.

“Who’ve we got ‘ere, then? Could it be my favourite footballer?” Richard asks, crouching and raising his hand in front of Jack to encourage a high five. Jack’s face lights up, he slaps his palm against Richard’s, and he throws both arms around Richard’s neck. Richard gives him a big kiss. “Hello, mate, nice to see ya,” he says, before letting Jack trot back towards Jamie.

Jamie picks him up and kisses his cheek, revelling in the look that his little boy is giving him. “Are you excited to see what Father Christmas brought you? Just wait until you see it—there’s so many presents under the tree!”

“Yay! Presents! I hope he got me LEGOs!”

Jamie chuckles and clutches Jack tighter on his hip, as he observes the _adoration _painted on Rosie’s eyes while Richard takes her tiny hand in his, bends forward into a little bow and greets her, “My lady. Lovely to see you, as usual.”

Rosie jumps into his arms and he swirls her around like they’re slow-dancing together, and the look he gives her is mirrored by Tina’s, who seems to be on the verge of bursting into happy tears. It’s been more than one year already, but Jamie suspects she’ll never get over how good Richard is with her kids. Quite right, too—Jamie can’t quite believe how tight Richard is with his own boy, either.

Pat finally closes the door as Richard settles Rosie on his hip and turns to look at Jamie, and Jamie can’t help but picture him holding a teeny tiny baby—_their_ baby—and he all of a sudden feels himself getting emotional. Fuck, Richard really is a dream with children—and Jamie loves him _so much_.

_I love you_, he can’t help but mouth at him.

_I love you more_, Richard mouths back, beaming.

“What’s with all the noise, then? Is trouble finally here?” Taron belts out from the end of the corridor. Everyone turns to look at him, and he’s quite simply _hilarious_. Even messier than when Jamie saw him, barely five minutes ago, still wearing oven gloves on both hands and holding his arms open as he squats down to welcome the only free child left—and, debatably, his favourite one.

Mari runs into his arms and he hugs her tightly, “Hello, kitten, how’ve you been?”

“Missed you, _arth_,” she says, softly, kissing his cheek. Flour gets on her lips, and she looks adorable.

Fifteen minutes, the late arrival of Richard’s dad and Taron and Jamie’s stepdads, and several presents later, Taron has settled back into the kitchen and gotten all three mothers to work with him towards making the Christmas lunch actually happen. Well—more _for_ him than _with_ him, if Jamie’s honest. He’s bossing them around quite a bit, it seems, and Tina’s _definitely_ not having it.

“Alright, alright,” she’s saying to Taron, as Jamie walks backs into the kitchen. “_You_ do it, then—we’ll watch and learn, won’t we, Pat?” she adds, elbowing Richard’s mum, who nods and raises an eyebrow at Taron.

Taron rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and grins, as he starts pouring frozen berries into a small pot. “Oh, I _will_ show you how to make berry _coulis_, don’t you worry about that, mother,” he says, knowingly, a cheeky grin on his face.

“One Christmas special with Jamie Oliver, and he’s suddenly the king of the kitchen,” Tina says, shaking her head benevolently. She does, however, take a piece of candied and chocolate dipped orange peels that Taron made last night out of the bowl in the middle of the kitchen island. When she takes a bite, she closes her eyes in delight. “Okay, these _are_ good, though, I must admit. Maybe you’re the real deal, son.”

Taron beams at her, looking extremely chuffed. 

Jamie takes the opportunity to butt in.

“Darling?” he calls out. Taron turns to look at him, and Jamie starts waving the garment he’s clutching in his hand. “I’ve got this for you—the rest of the boys and girls already put them on. Where shall I leave yours?”

Taron inspects the jumper Jamie’s holding, and he brings a hand to his heart. “Awww, how could I forget you got those made? Look, Mam, isn’t this adorable?” he asks Tina, prompting Jamie to show off his own jumper and the one he’s holding in his hands. Jamie’s has a big “J” on the front, and Taron’s a “T”. “Jamie e-mailed Lochaven of Scotland and got everyone their very own Mrs.-Weasley-handknit-Christmas-jumper.”

“Oh, what a _wonderful_ idea!” Pat shrills, squeezing Jamie’s arm excitedly. “This one’s a keeper, isn’t he?”

“He most definitely is,” Taron agrees. “You raised a good one, here, Eileen.”

“What can I say,” Eileen replies, beaming at her son over the cup of tea she’s drinking from. “He always was a special boy.”

Jamie subsequently gets roped into a conversation that is, essentially, an excuse for three middle-aged women and Taron—well, _four _middle-aged women, really—to gush over him. After approximately ten minutes of sipping on his brew and blushing furiously at embarrassing childhood stories that have Taron bent over laughing, Jamie thinks he’s had about enough.

“Did you hear that?” he asks, putting a hand to his right ear, dramatically.

Taron smirks at him. “No, honey, I did not,” he says, infuriatingly.

“No, no, I definitely did hear something, I swear! Coming, darling!” Jamie calls out to Richard, slowly starting to back away from the gang of gossiping hens crowded around the kitchen island.

Richard utters something inaudible back, and Jamie takes advantage of it to make a quick escape. Right before exiting the kitchen, he hears Taron mumble to his mum, “I’m _clearly_ not his favourite, anymore, am I?” while their eyes meet. Jamie mouths _not true_ back to him, and he sticks his tongue out. Taron blows him a kiss, and then Jamie’s gone.

He shakes his head as he strolls into the living room and sees Richard, lying on the carpet next to the massive Christmas tree he insisted they get, covered in two children in matching jumpers and getting photographed by the one who looks like the only responsible party in the group. Mari is holding Richard’s phone and saying “cheeeeeese,” as Jack and Rosie are each nestled into the crook of one of Richard’s arms, and the three of them are smiling broadly at the camera. It’s such a sweet scene to look at, and Jamie thinks his heart might explode.

“Beautiful!” Mari says, happily. “Uncle Richard, can I get pictures too? With Jamie?”

“Sure thing,” Richard says, raising to a sitting position, crossing his legs and pulling Jack and Rosie closer, so he has a child on each thigh. “Give us the phone back and strike a pose, love,” he says, holding out a hand and winking at her. “You too, Billy Elliot. C’mon, darling,” he says to Jamie, giving him a look of pure love.

Jamie’s heart swells up a tad more still. “Aye, sir,” he replies, and he proceeds to happily lend himself to a full-on photoshoot.

The Christmas lunch is, in a word, a success. Last year’s was too, of course, but this time Taron and the mums really have outdone themselves. From starters to pudding, everything was _delicious_, and everyone is absolutely bloody stuffed—and maybe a tad drunk, too.

The three couples of parents have happily scattered between several bedrooms, on a quest to snooze off the drunkenness and the nosh, while their three adult sons are now curled up on the couch with the kids, watching _Love, Actually_. They all know the movie by heart, of course, but for some absurd reason they’ve never watched it together—and, somehow, this makes for a very refreshing experience.

As it turns out, if one brings Richard down to the right level of smashed and simultaneously fills him with enough sugar from candy canes and Christmas cake, he will spontaneously perform a mighty fine impression of both Bill Nighy’s old rockstar moves _and_ of the legendary beat where Hugh Grant as Prime Minister dances to _Jump (For My Love)_. Jamie’s brain tells him that this can’t possibly be the same man he saw struggling his way through one of the most painfully awkward dance routines he’s ever witnessed in his life—but then again, Richard always manages to surprise him, it seems. He is _definitely_ writing this one down, though. He has to be able to hold it against him the next time they’re out and the DJ is taking requests.

No surprise reactions to the movie when it comes to Taron, though. He never—not even for one second—stops gushing over Colin’s sad, divorced writer character, nor does he hold back the tears during the scene when Emma Thompson cries listening to Joni’s _Both Sides Now_. Drunk and hyper-carbed-up Taron is just an amplified version of his already flamboyant and overly emotional self, really. It’s _not_ the drunk Taron Jamie’s used to, mind—definitely _not in front of the kids_. This one is just sweet and needy and cuddly, grabbing his little sisters and Jack and pulling them as close as he can. Jamie kisses this Taron a lot.

Maybe a little too much, actually, because Jack ends up pointing at them after a while and declaring, candidly, to no-one in particular, “Daddy _loves_ Taron!” making Jamie’s heart beat very, very fast.

Richard rubs the boy’s head affectionately with one hand, and Jamie grabs his other one, entangling their fingers. “He really does, you know,” Richard tells Jack, dazzling everyone present with his dreamy eyes and that Prince Charming smile that has haunted Jamie’s dream for months before he could confidently and unapologetically kiss the lips framing it.

Rosie, who was starting to drift off to sleep, is suddenly brought back to reality by the new topic of conversation. Jamie doesn’t yet know her as well as he would like to, but he likes to think he’s got at least one side of her right. Namely, he’s gathered that the girl, just newly six years old, definitely is a hopeless romantic. He could tell by the countless Disney princesses he saw on her bedroom wall, back in Aberystwyth, the few times they went up to visit, and by the way her eyes turn into lovehearts whenever princes and ballgowns are mentioned. What gave her away today in particular was the fact that she spent the better part of twenty minutes telling Richard they should get married, because they were wearing matching “R” jumpers (hers a faded, dusky pink, with the lettering in deep burgundy; his, the same colours, but the other way round). He gets the final confirmation he’s been waiting for when she speaks up, to say her piece about this whole _love_ thing, that she seems to have all figured out—way better than anyone else present.

“Taron loves Jamie, but he loves the prince… _Richard_ too,” she declares, confidently, eyeing her sister.

“Yes, it’s true,” Mari chips in, hugging Taron’s middle and burying her head in his lap, looking up at everyone. “He told us, at home, when you were both sleeping. He said it wasn’t even a secret, that we could tell all our friends. He said he’s… what’s the word, _arth_?”

“_Proud_, darling. I said I’m proud,” Taron says, his voice shaking slightly, as he caresses Mari’s head.

Jamie can see that his eyes are clouded with tears, and he feels himself start to well up in turn. He pulls Taron in to plant a soft kiss on his temple, whispers _I love you_ in his ear, and turns to look at Richard, who’s actually biting down on his lip and looking like he’s about to lose it any minute.

He squeezes Richard’s hand tighter. “We’re proud too, darling. And we both love him so much. Don’t we, Rich?”

“Yes, yes, we both love Taron, sweetie. With all our heart,” Richard says, kissing the back of Jamie’s hand tangled in his, lips deliberately grazing the delicate platinum band Jamie’s wearing on his ring finger.

Richard and Taron wear the same one. They’re engraved, each sporting the symbolic date of the day when they all first met, that fateful hot day in July last year. The day Taron first called them _my John and Bernie_. The day when it all started.

Jamie looks from Taron to Richard, then onto the kids scattered between their laps, and he sighs, in complete happiness.

_Who’d have thought, eh?_

** _Taron – You can measure the strength of a human by the weight of the love around them / Be the young, the brave, the powerful_**

_Four Seasons Hotel, Beverly Hills, February 9th 2020, 5 P.M._

Taron is lying on one of the beds in their massive suite, killing time on Instagram. More specifically, he’s been stalking Tan France for the better part of the last thirty minutes, telling him how much he _adores_ his clothes. It’s been a successful fishing expedition so far—Tan has replied to three of his comments, promising him two coats, a jumper, and even a pair of boots. God, that man. If Taron was single…

Somehow on cue, one of Taron’s _boyfriends_ pops his head into the bedroom. Jamie is holding a glass of green juice and sipping from it with a glass straw, and smiling sweetly down at him.

“Everything alright, sweet’eart?” Jamie asks, sounding chipper. Nevertheless, Taron can’t help but think he looks damn tired. He’s perfectly aware of the reason why, too—Jamie hasn’t slept properly in approximately two weeks. Taron might have Leo and Joaquin to worry about, but Jamie is up against Brad Pitt and Al _fucking_ Pacino. Of course he’s got bags under his eyes.

“Grand. Scared shitless, but I suspect I might start sounding like a broken record in that regard,” Taron says, shrugging.

Jamie looks at him, sympathetically rolling his eyes in an attempt at downplaying his own crippling anxiety.

“C’mere, silly man. Give me a kiss, won’t ya?” Taron tells him, patting the space next to him on the bed.

Jamie approaches, sits down, and kisses him. Taron involuntarily winces. He tastes like…

“Ugh, Andrew, _celery_,” Taron says, curling his face up in disgust. “Regretting my life choices right about now.”

That makes Jamie laugh. For a second, Taron revels in the absolute things of beauty that are the wrinkles around Jamie’s eyes, and then he kisses him again, behind his ear this time, caressing his opposite cheek with his thumb.

“It’s going to be alright, my love,” he says, reassuringly. “Whatever happens, Jamie Bell, you’re going to shine as bright as you did for the last twenty bloody years. My life, my love, my _Bernie_.”

Jamie’s smile is now effectively blinding Taron. It also kind of looks like he’s about to burst into tears—but Taron suspects they might be happy tears, at least. Nervous, at the very worst.

“God, you two,” Richard’s voice comes in from the general direction of the door. Taron turns to look at him. He looks smug. “Want me tae book you a flight to Vegas so you can elope without me?”

Taron scoffs. Raises his right hand, shows it to Richard. The platinum band is firmly hugging his ring finger, as it has for more than a year. “Seriously, Dickie.”

In the meantime, next to him, Jamie’s waving his own hand—sporting the exact same ring—up at Richard. “_You_ gave us these. We took ‘em. Who d’you take us for, exactly?” he asks, jumping to his feet and standing on his toes to get his face on the same level as Richard’s. “You’re a big old fool, Richard Madden,” he declares, planting a loud smooch on one of his stubbly cheeks. “And I love you.”

“I love you too,” Richard replies, looking from Jamie to Taron alternatively. “My Oscar nominees. I can barely believe it.”

“Well, _technically_,” Jamie starts, “we’re already your Globe, SAG, and BAFTA _winners_, darling.”

“I’ll admit, the mantlepiece _is_ getting crowded,” Richard seconds him, looking proud and absolutely besotted.

“I mean, that’s hardly a surprise, though, is it? Three of the greatest actors of our generation, all sharing a roof…” Taron says, simply, glancing back at Richard, equally as smitten—if not a little smug.

Jamie laughs and buries himself in Richard’s arms, and the pair of them look down at Taron. It’s a gaze that speaks a thousand words. “What?” he asks, knowing full well what they’re about to say. He _really_ needs to work on his modesty.

Before they can reply, the phone in the room suddenly rings. Richard hurries towards the bedside table to pick up the call.

“Hello? Yes, it’s me,” he confirms. A small pause follows. “Oh, perfect,” he then says, smiling into the receiver. “Yes, of course, please send him up! Thank you very much, have a great evening!”

Taron is perplexed. “Send _who_ up? Are we expecting someone, Dickie?”

Richard looks at Jamie, fleetingly. “Oh, just Gareth!” he replies, turning his attention back to Taron.

“_Gareth_?” Taron asks, confused.

“Yeah, T, d’you remember Gareth? The man who’s been making sure you don’t turn up to official events in athleisure gear for approximately two years, now?” Jamie says, from behind Taron.

Oh, _very_ funny.

“Ha-ha, James,” Taron says, sticking his tongue out at him. He then looks at Richard again. “But seriously, why is Gareth _here_, Richard?” Taron asks again, completely lost. “The ceremony is _tomorrow_.”

“We have dinner at Elton and David’s, tonight, darling,” Richard explains, in the tone of a man who’s said a similar sentence at least a dozen times in the past fifteen months, but who still doesn’t seem to believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“Yes, indeed we do,” Taron agrees, “but it’s not as if I needed to turn up in a full tux and tails every bloody time, is it?”

“Oh, c’mon, pet, indulge us,” Jamie says, benevolent, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s the end of awards season—last few chances to dress up, and we’re taking them all. We’re also playing the dapper boys, tonight, aren’t we, Richie?”

“We are indeed,” Richard says, winking at Jamie. Then, he sniggers, pecks Taron on the lips. “Excuse me for a second, my loves,” he says, as he moves away to go open the door for Gareth.

Taron watches him turn the corner and disappear. Jamie sips on the last of his green juice, then turns on his heels and follows Richard out the door.

Richard and Jamie are behaving weirdly, tonight. This whole Oscars thing is just eating away at all three of them, it seems. Thank God there’s just a couple more day of this, and then they get to fuck off back home to the cats.

“Coming, darling?” Jamie calls out, a few minutes later.

Taron sighs, then gets up and walks through the corridor towards Jamie’s voice. When he reaches him, he realises that neither Richard nor Gareth are anywhere to be seen.

“They’re setting everything up in the wardrobe,” Jamie explains, anticipating his question. “And I’m making us all cuppas. Want one too? They stocked Yorkshire Tea like I asked.” His eyes are _glistening_ with joy.

“Home away from home,” Taron replies, mirroring Jamie’s dreamy gaze. “Yes, please.”

Fuck, Taron loves his northern man.

Jamie walks into the small kitchen space and disappears from view. Taron trots forward and enters the wardrobe.

Gareth’s face lights up when he sees him. “Hello, pretty man. So nice to see you again!”

Taron wraps him in a tight hug. “’Ello, mate. Didn’t think I’d be seeing you until tomorrow! What’s going on?”

Gareth scuffs. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he says, gesturing with his hands. “I was free tonight, and the boys very kindly thought of inviting me over to get you ready for…” he hesitates a jiffy, then seems to find himself again. “…_dinner_ with the Big Man.”

“Oh, by the way, G,” Richard butts in, from where he’s sitting on the floor, flicking through the selection of black ties Gareth’s brought with him. “Elton says you’re welcome to join too, tonight.”

Look at Richard, making plans with Elton John like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Taron is _very_ proud.

Gareth beams at both of them in turn. “Better hurry up here, then. I need to get back to my hotel and make myself _presentable_.”

_Two hours later_

They pull into Elton’s driveway at precisely 7 P.M., since Jamie categorically _refuses_ to be late to these things—he won’t even stand the _quart d’heure de politesse_. Taron suspects Jamie is afraid that Elton will stop inviting them if they ever show up late. Jamie is _adorable_, sometimes.

Taron ended up twisting both Richard and Jamie’s arms and rejecting the black tie, in favour of a robin’s egg blue suit. It’s an old number, from the end of 2018, but it still looks good as new. After all, he only wore it the one time, for a certain wedding he went to as Richard’s plus one. He didn’t really think he’d be wearing it—he brought it more for good luck than anything else, really, since back in London Gareth told him he’d already found him an outfit that is actually from _this season_ to wear on the night of the Oscars. Surprisingly enough, though, his stylist was incredibly enthusiastic for it to make a comeback tonight.

This, incidentally, means that Taron is somehow perfectly matching the colour of the ’68 Cadillac that Richard—ever the show-off—has hired as their leisure ride for the trip. It has pristine white leather seats, wooden details, and it is, of course, a convertible. It’s February, but it’s also La La Land, so the top _definitely_ needs to be off.

Every bit of slightly cold wind they’re exposed to during the fifteen-odd-minute drive there is worth it when they see the looks on Zach and Eli’s faces as they get out of the car. Elton and David, standing right behind them, look _delighted_. God, Taron bets the three of them look like they’re just out of _Mad Men_. He's never felt cooler in his life.

“Always so lovely to have you here. C’mere, Blodwyn,” Elton says, hugging him tight and kissing his cheek.

“You know pleasure’s definitely all ours, Sharon,” Taron replies, kissing Elton in return. He then moves on to David and the boys, eager for more cuddles. Zach and Eli drown him in hugs. It’s _wonderful_.

Taron listens to Elton greet Richard, stifling a chuckle. “Darling Margaret,” he’s saying, adoringly. “You look more dazzling than ever.”

“He’s compensating for not getting the nomination, Elton,” Jamie comes in, with a wicked smile on his face. “Doing his best to outshine us both—frankly, it’s infuriating.”

Taron turns to look at them, then, and notices Jamie’s hand is on Richard’s round, sculpted butt. Richard gasps in shock and fake outrage.

“How _dare_ you, Ginger,” Elton says, mimicking Richard’s expression for a split-second, but then melting into a sweet smile and chuckling lightly. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous too, by the way. Gareth’s outdone himself.”

“He definitely has,” David agrees, running his hand over Richard’s arm. _Armani?_, he mouths. Richard nods and winks at him.

Then, David’s fingers curl around Richard’s bicep a bit, and his face contracts in surprise. “God, Richard, are you made of _stone_, love? Darling, feel his arm. He’s…”

“…a goddamned Marvel superhero, David,” Taron effortlessly completes his sentence, muffling the swear word between his teeth to avoid it reaching the children. “None of his suits fit him anymore. It’s a _tragedy_, really,” he says, dramatically, grinning at both Richard and Jamie. _Eternals_ has just wrapped, but Jamie and Taron have a secret arrangement to keep sneaking as much protein as they can into Richard’s food. The sex has been even more mind-boggling than usual, in the past four months, and neither of them is ready to give up on buff Richard Madden any time soon, thank you very much.

Elton and David usher the three of them into the house, unceremoniously walking past the living room and the dining room—where Taron had assumed they’d be eating—to bring them out into the back garden. What they’re faced with when they get there are countless beach torches, crackling on each side of a gravel path leading to a _gigantic marquee_, standing right in the middle of the green grass and glowing yellow from the lights inside it—looking like it’s _crammed_ with people.

Okay. What the _fuck_ is going on.

Taron turns to look at Elton, incredulous.

“What…?”

“Surprise, love,” Elton says, looking absolutely chuffed with himself. “We’re throwing you a wee party.”

“A wee party” turns out to mean Taron being hit square in the face by a powerful wave of Hollywood glitz, the _crème de la crème_ of the British and American music scene, and even bloody _royalty_.

He gets to listen to Meghan M—uh, the _Duchess of Sussex_—rave about his portrayal of Elton for approximately ten minutes, and he spends every second wondering whether this is actually his life, or if someone is about to come up to him, pinch him, and give him a well-deserved and wildly overdue reality check. Just as he’s thinking this, Prince Harry walks up to them, and jumps on the praise train. Taron is _awestruck_.

Soon after, Harry and Meghan are whisked away by a giant man wearing an in-ear device, and Taron is left alone in the middle of a crowded room, positively frozen on the spot. Did that _really_ just happen?

Suddenly, he feels a very tall body approach him from behind, and two extremely muscular arms close around his top half.

“Long time no see, little mate,” Hugh’s sunny voice says in his ear. “I see you’ve been doing pretty well for yourself.” Taron smiles broadly, fighting the urge to lean into his touch, and turns around.

When he does, he realises that Hugh is not alone. Next to him stands a man in a cream-coloured suit and a light blue shirt, whose perfectly styled hair and beard and big, veiny hands clutched around a cocktail glass make it hard for Taron to breathe normally, for a few seconds.

“So nice to see you again, Taron,” Gary Barlow tells him. God, his _accent_. “Damn proud of you, mate,” he says, raising his glass. “Matthew was right—you _do_ sing better than me,” he says, smiling broadly. Then, his eyes flicker to Taron’s right for a second. “Rob! Rob!” he calls out, waving an arm to attract someone’s attention. “Come say hi to the man of the ‘our, mate!”

Taron’s already overwhelmed as it is, but then _Robbie Williams_ and his breathtakingly beautiful wife join them, and the level of his starstruckness hits a new high.

Robbie shakes his hand, beaming at him. “Lovely to see ya, Taron.” He then turns to Gary, looking down at him in fake disapproval. “By the way, some bloke just ‘anded me a goddamn Negroni, and I _almost_ took a sip. You need to stop bribing the waiters, Gaz,” he scolds him.

Gary raises his shoulders. “Just a bit of fun. Standing in for Markie and Doug, since they couldn’t come.”

Robbie shakes his head. “Thirty years, I’ve ‘ad to put up with this one, can you believe it? But hey, Taron, _you_ should ’ave this, though,” he says, handing the glass to Taron. “You look like you need a drink, mate.”

Great. Robbie Williams is seeing right through Taron.

Someone grabs Ayda’s hand and tears her away from the group. She winks and blows a kiss to Taron. “Marvellous job, darling,” she says, making Taron blush to the roots of his hair.

Gary, Robbie and Hugh then launch into complimenting Taron’s “golden pipes” and his spin on Elton’s songs in the movie. It’s fucking with Taron’s mind, really—two of Britain’s best loved popstars of all time, plus his friend, the Hollywood legend and _multiple-Tony-winner_, are gushing over his _singing_—and, truly, if someone could kindly explain what the _hell_ even is his life, at the moment, that would be great.

Just as he feels himself getting dizzy from all the praise—or maybe it’s the Negroni, actually, he can’t really be sure—a familiar warmth approaches him, and a comforting scent fills his nostrils.

Richard wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in, pressing a kiss on his temple. “Everything alright, here, T?” he whispers, close to his skin. Taron immediately relaxes into him. Fuck, it’s so _nice_ to be out and proud.

“Perfect, love. Let me introduce you. I don’t think you’ve met Gary? And Robbie?”

Richard smiles, and proceeds to dazzle everyone around him. “Such a pleasure, gentlemen. I’m looking forward to telling my sisters about this—their teenage bedrooms were _plastered_ in Take That posters…”

It’s a stand-up event, so the rest of the evening passes in a giant blur of Elton, his lovely husband, and David Walliams parading Taron around, introducing him to the LGBTQ elite of what distinctly looks like the whole of Britain and the United States combined—only intermittently interrupted by Richard and Jamie falling into their respective roles of tempter and guardian angel, the first bringing Taron wine and cocktails, and the latter appearing with several plates of nibbles and glasses of water, making sure he eats and stays hydrated so he doesn’t get blind drunk.

By 10 P.M., when the live music starts, Taron is _extremely _happy to take a breather.

Harry Styles steps onstage wearing Elton’s signature bedazzled Dodgers uniform, and proceeds to steal the _goddamn_ show.

Lizzo, Lewis Capaldi, and Niall Horan succeed him, playing a song each, and it’s all _amazing_ and emotional and everything that’s good in the world.

Gary and Robbie do _Back For Good_, _Angels_, and _Rule The World_ together, and Taron can’t fucking believe his eyes and ears.

Ed Sheeran does an acoustic version of _Candle In The Wind_, and Taron feels tears surge.

Then, Brandi Carlile delivers _A Case Of You_, and he breaks down completely.

By the time David gets onstage to introduce the last act, it is definitely safe to say that Taron is emotionally spent. Thankfully, Jamie and Richard are both holding him, one on each side of his body, keeping him warm and steady. It’s the end of the night. Everyone—save, maybe, Elton, David, and Robbie—is drunk. Everyone’s jackets and ties are gone. Everyone just looks so goddamn _happy_.

“Please, welcome the man responsible for the soundtrack to the happiest day of my life!” David announces, as James Blunt climbs the few steps on the right of the stage, and everyone in the audience screams their hearts out. _1973_ is followed by a string of his other canonical hits, and God he’s _amazing_. Fucking hell, Taron wishes he sounded this flawless when singing live, too.

James is breathless and all smiles by the time he gets to the small speech before his last song. “Alright, everyone…” he starts.

“Oh, here we go,” Taron hears Jamie say, softly. He feels Jamie and Richard’s fingers entwine upon his back, and he waits for James to continue, with renewed anticipation.

“This is my last song, and it’s from my latest album—so I’d be surprised if a lot of you knew it. It’s a special commission from the two gentlemen over here,” he says, gesturing at Jamie and Richard, as someone moves one of the lights from the stage down to them. “I originally wrote this for my son—but, tonight, dear Mr. Egerton, it’s for you.”

Taron recognises the song at once. Some of the lines in there have been a kind of mantra for Jamie and Richard, lately. So, naturally, when James sings _but if I was a betting man, I’d put all my money on you_, Taron feels another wave of tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

Then, James gets to the last chorus—and that’s when Taron loses it.

_Be the young, the brave, the powerful_

_'Cause the world is standing waiting for someone to come and change it_

_Be the young, the brave, the powerful_

_'Cause we need a soul to save us_

_Need someone to be the greatest _

“_You_’re our _greatest_, Taron. Congratulations, mate. You deserve it all.”

Taron doesn’t know what to say. He’s dumbstruck, and he also kind of forgot how to breathe. He brings his right hand to the left side of his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his fingers and the light cotton of his shirt. He looks up at James. Belts out a shaky _thank you_. He feels Jamie and Richard plant a soft kiss on each of his tear-stained cheeks, and the ever-present butterflies in his stomach start fluttering so fast, it feels like a tornado in there. A few seconds in, he’s _floating_.

“We love you, superstar,” Jamie whispers in his ear.

“So _fucking_ much,” Richard reiterates, taking Taron’s right hand in his and kissing the promise ring on his finger. “Let’s get you out of here for a wee bit, Golden Boy. Shall we?”

“Oh, fuck yes.” He might as well have kissed them in front of everybody, but he feels like all the grabbing and groping he’s planning on doing will probably get a tad too intense for an audience of this calibre—so he’s unbelievably grateful that Richard has just suggested slipping away for a while.

They get out into the chilly winter night in just their shirts, and the sudden thermal shock momentarily makes Taron think he’s going to pass out. The feeling doesn’t last long, though. He grabs Jamie and Richard’s hands, and they all start running through the dimly lit garden, away from the party buzz.

Absolutely no one’s around, so they settle on a deck chair by the pool. It’s definitely too small for three people, but none of them really cares.

They kiss and kiss, and then kiss some more.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, they see a very flustered Dexter Fletcher emerge from the marquee and rush towards them.

“Oi, what the _hell_ are you boys doing out ‘ere? I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Get your bums back in there, Elton’s about to go on! He’s doing a surprise set! Can’t start without you, can he?”

Oh, gosh. Of course he is. 

Taron smiles, nods, and feels his heartbeat quicken once again.

Elton does a small set of Taron’s favourites—_Someone Saved My Life Tonight_, _Your Song_, _Tiny Dancer_, and even somehow manages to drag _Bernie_ on stage to play tambourine on _Captain Fantastic_, which if he's not mistaken was an honour previously reserved to the likes of John Lennon—and, again, what even is life.

“From Elton and Bernie, to Elton and Bernie,” they say, in unison, grinning at Taron and Jamie. Jamie draws a sharp breath, and when Taron looks at him through the haze of his own happy tears, he can see him struggling to keep it in.

Then, it turns out that Elton wants Taron on stage. Taron switches stage fright mode on, then, and proceeds to have a silent argument with himself.

They haven’t rehearsed anything. He hasn’t been up there with Elton since the Greek Theater. He hasn’t sung into a mic in _months_. He needs to save his voice for tomorrow night’s performance at the fucking _Oscars_. He can’t _possibly_ do this.

Each and every one of his arguments inevitably ends up failing to make a reasonable case against him joining Elton John on stage at the goddamn party Elton threw for _him_. Up he goes, then.

It’s surprising how it only takes a few notes from Elton’s piano to get him completely in the zone. He’ll _never_ get used to this.

_I can’t light_

_No more of your darkness_

He belts the song out like his life depends on it. He takes some gambles on the high notes, makes teeny variations—even _competes with Elton_ for lines—and he’s so _smooth_, and it all goes embarrassingly well. Fuck stage fright, really—he was _born_ for this. He’s back in his element, and it feels so goddamn good.

The room is full of people, but Jamie and Richard are the only ones he sees. Richard’s got an arm around Jamie’s shoulders, and their eyes are riveted on him for the entire duration of the song.

When they finish, Taron and Elton both take their time basking in the rush of applause that follows. Taron grabs Elton’s hand, and they bow together. He pulls Elton into a tight hug, and tells him he loves him. Elton says it back. He’s so proud, he says. He loves him so much.

Then, silence falls again. Not for long, though—because, overwhelmed but emboldened by his apparently crowd-pleasing performance, Taron decides to dare something else.

“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for coming. I think it’s safe to say that this has been the most magical night of my life,” he says, his heart beating hard and fast into his ears, slightly muffling all the noise around him. “I'd bloody well better win that thing, tomorrow night, 'adn't I?” he says, more to himself than anyone else, but he’s met by a rush of benevolent laughter all the same. He can almost taste the reassurance coming from the multitude of pairs of eyes looking up at him—and it’s sweet as honey.

Right, maybe it’s time to pull the last ace out of his sleeve, then. It’s definitely now or never.

“Elton, mate, can we do another one?” he asks, turning to look at one of the men he loves most in the world, whom apparently read his mind, because he’s already back behind his grand piano in his outrageous Gucci sunnies and Swarovski-covered jacket.

“It will be my pleasure, darling,” Elton says, an avuncular smile lighting up his face at once.

Taron grins back at him, then turns to the audience again. “Right, so… I know you’ve heard this one already, tonight, but please indulge me. You see, down there amongst you,” he says, briefly pausing to swallow his emotions, “are two men. They’re amazing at their craft, and they’re both funny as hell, and they’re kind and absolutely lovely—and, well, they’re _gorgeous_. Yes, yes, go ahead, look at them, I definitely won’t blame any of you for staring,” he says, pausing again to let the new rush of laughter pass. He grins too, but secretly gulps down some more tears. “I guess that what I’m trying to say is—meeting these two has been a turning point for me, and the true highlight of my thirty years on this planet. Richard, Jamie… since the day you first became my John and Bernie, I knew it would be impossible to ever let you go. This one’s for you.”

Watching Jamie and Richard’s reactions to his little speech gets him breathless for a second. Then, Elton starts playing, and Taron switches himself back on.

_…how wonderful life is, now you’re in the world._

The song ends. He’s got tears running down his cheeks, and he can see that Jamie and Richard’s faces are also glistening in the twinkling golden light of the party. The pride he feels, looking at them—the _love_.

“Elton, Bernie… if this song hadn’t existed, I probably wouldn’t be here. And now I get to call you my _friends_!” he says, breathlessly, widening his eyes and shaking his head in disbelief. He looks at the two men who effectively made his career possible and he feels the emotional and physical weight of the silver bracelet around his wrist. 

Elton wraps an arm around Bernie’s shoulders, pulling him in. They both beam back at Taron. 

Taron reads their lips.

_We love you_.

_I love you too_, he mouths, once more on the verge of tears, before turning back to look at the audience.

“Destiny is a funny thing, innit? Life is weird. Life is _wonderful_,” he says, sighing, completely at peace. “Jamie, Richard... You fill my life with joy and colour, and I love you both with all of my heart,” he declares, looking directly at the two men of his dreams. Their eyes are shining with adoration.

“Love always wins, ladies and gentlemen. Bless you all. Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. Kudos to those of you who got the _Doctor Who_ reference in the beginning notes. For those of you who haven’t—[here it is](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0OZhzIPfgxU).
> 
> Titles are by Arctic Monkeys, Joni Mitchell, Elton (couldn’t resist his classic Christmas tune, could I?), Gary Barlow (feat. Elton), and James Blunt. Aka, all my absolute faves jumbled up into one big sappy chapter.
> 
> Speaking of, I’ve decided to give you a Christmas present. I’ve assembled all the songs I’ve used since the very beginning of this whole shebang [into a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3cZ7rZWVCnXI1CAYnq1TWy?si=ERTU0uFCRcG7Ma-p4qwlKw). For those of you who will decide to re-read the story, or simply for those who just like some good-ass tunes—you’re very welcome.
> 
> Last bits and bobs here:
> 
> The Gavin stuff backstage at the BAFTAs is perhaps the only bit in this whole thing which I absolutely did _not_ make up. Please refer to:  
\- [This photo](https://www.instagram.com/p/BtwM7HKj0v8/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) for the boys’ backstage prep before presenting the award;  
\- [This photo](https://www.instagram.com/p/BtwCWGVjuMR/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) for the nice lady lint-rolling Richard’s jacket;  
\- [This video](https://www.instagram.com/p/B3xDqszlskH/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) for the bit where Richard scrunches his nose and declares his undying love, Jamie is awkward as hell, Taron asks whether he’s straight (he’s not, btw);  
\- [This GIF](https://www.instagram.com/p/B4CCq34ldas/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) for _that moment_ between Jamie and Richard;  
\- [This video](https://applesfallingfromblondehair.tumblr.com/post/189349632936/fyeahegerton-richard-madden-taron-egerton-and) for Jamie and Richard sniffing Taron up like the absolute fools in love they are, and Taron claiming he hasn’t had a cig or a drink in a month  
\- [This collection of photos](https://www.shutterstock.com/editorial/search/jamie-bell-taron-egerton-richard-madden-bafta) of them looking like absolute #husbands.
> 
> The Christmas bit is a present to myself and the resolution to all the teasing I’ve been doing to [Sharonglitterbombjohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharonglitterbombjohn/pseuds/Sharonglitterbombjohn) re: baby Jack Bell. I sincerely hope I was able to pay off at least a bit of what I promised.
> 
> Yes, I gave Jamie and Richard drag names—and they both are courtesy of [drinkingstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkingstars/pseuds/drinkingstars)’s genius:  
Richard is _definitely_ a Margaret, because she’s the patroness of Scotland AND Elton’s favourite royal. (Shout-out to Helena Bonham-Carter for the few bits of the last season of _The Crown_ I actually enjoyed.)  
Jamie is Ginger—because Ginger Rogers, of course. Until he can play Fred Astaire in a biopic, that goes without saying. (Please, @ God: make it happen.)
> 
> I then proceeded to fill the party with all my favourites. How convenient that Taron and/or Elton seem to be pals with all of them. [Click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j1AStdQkfr8) for a funny story about Elton forcing Robbie into rehab, and [here](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x18fy9x) for an adorable face-to-face performance between Gary and Elton a few years back. Gary is the original Taron, btw. Just so you know. Please refer to [this stupid thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719562/chapters/46669513) I wrote a while back if you would like to quantify just how obsessed I am with the man.
> 
> Alright, rambling done. The _last_ bit of rambling.
> 
> For now, that is. 
> 
> I won’t be going away any time soon, I’m afraid. If you want to keep up with the silliness, please consider [subscribing to me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus). I am not done with the three idiots in love, and I have a buttload of ideas for oneshots from the same universe written down. You’ll be hearing from me and the boys very soon. (New Madderton may or may not be in the works already, too!)
> 
> Until then, my loves, take care of yourselves. Eat all the Christmas (or *insert other holiday here*) food, drink, and be merry. 
> 
> Thank you for these incredible last few months. 
> 
> With all my love,
> 
> C xxx

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever want to connect, I'm @applesfallingfromblondehair on Tumblr. Come say hi <3


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